My Music is My Weapon
by Descha05
Summary: Dmitri Shostakovich. Formalist Enemy of the People, yet also, Soviet Hero? When Shostakovich somehow escapes execution, Ivan Braginsky is posted in Leningrad to spy on the composer. Instead, they become close friends. From then on, perhaps without even knowing it, they support each other as Stalin terrorizes the country, as Hitler tries to finish it off, and the years afterwards.
1. Introduction: The Tonic Note

**Introduction - The Tonic Note**

It was snowing, as expected of the weather in Russia.

Ivan Braginsky held out his gloved hand and grimaced at the snowflake that landed on it. Winter was his least favourite time of the year, even though it was just about the only season in most of Russia. Ivan wiped the snowflake onto his pants and sighed, a large cloud of his breath escaping his mouth. Somewhere in the distance, children were laughing and yelling, dogs barked, and a violinist was practising with their window open. Ivan smiled. Yes, his country had issues to work through, but it was still beautiful.

Ivan was almost literally thrown from his thoughts when a small, dark haired child with round glasses ran into him, causing the little boy to fall over. Ivan stared down at the boy as he stood, wiping off his pants and shirt.

" _Прости_!" The little boy exclaimed, his eyes shining.

Ivan smiled warmly at him, a strange feeling rising in his chest.

" _Mitya!_ "

Before Ivan could respond to the child, the boy was being pulled away from him by a worried married couple.

"Dmitri," the woman scolded him, although somewhat jokingly. "I told you not to speak to strangers,"

Ivan made eye contact with the mother and looked away, frowning in both confusion and curiosity. He had a feeling this family, this boy, was going to play a large role in his life and country in the next few years.

And as usual, his feeling wasn't just a feeling. It would soon become a reality.

* * *

 **Honestly, I have no real excuse for this fic, other than I'm a huge Shostakovich fan and I wanted to write about him and Russia. If you don't know who Dmitri Shostakovich is, I highly suggest you check out his works. I'll be mentioning a lot of them in this fic so if you don't feel like looking them up now you always can when they show up (if you want that is lol).**

 **Anyway, the intro takes place in like...1911ish. So a few years after the 1905 revolution and six years before the Bolshevik Revolution.**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Lady Macbeth of Mstensk District

**Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk** **District**

 **1936**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

Ivan hummed an old folk song as he tilted his head at the poster in front of him. It was to promote the year's biggest opera: _Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District_. Ivan traced the Cyrillic on the poster with his finger. He knew he looked childish, but he had a feeling he was connected to something to do with the opera.

Alarm bells rang in his head as he took his hand off of the poster. Comrade Stalin requested for him. Sighing, Ivan simply closed his eyes and was instantly at Stalin's door, standing by one of the chairs in the room outside of his office. He mentally braced himself and went through the door, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling of power and hatred that coursed through the room.

"You asked for me, sir?" Ivan asked, standing stiffly at attention.

Stalin nodded his head, writing something in a notebook. " _Да_ , I wish to discuss with you the opera that is gaining great popularity in my nation," he answered.

 _ **His**_ _nation?_ Ivan nearly rolled his eyes. "What of this opera, sir?"

"I want tickets to the next show. If it is as good as everyone says it is, I want to make sure it is suitable for the republic before it gets too out of hand,"

Ivan narrowed his eyes as Stalin went back to whatever he was doing. He made it sound like he actually cared. No, Ivan knew what he was really up to. Stalin was afraid of creativity. It could change people's thoughts and start something... _revolutionary_. He needed to control everything to make sure the people didn't get too many ideas. After all, how could you be a powerful leader when your citizens have minds of their own?

"You may leave now," Stalin pulled him out of his dark thoughts with a handful of irritation, to which Ivan rolled his eyes and walked out of the room, instantly feeling relieved when he closed the door behind him. The guards that had just arrived jumped and eyed him in surprise, each of them wondering how he got there without them knowing.

Ivan smirked and headed towards the Bolshoi theatre. Secrets still existed in Paradise, no matter how hard the party tried to uncover them.

* * *

The Bolshoi theatre was packed.

Ivan sat in the balcony with Stalin, his wife, and other high ranking party members, scanning the area below. The last time he saw a theatre this full was when Swan Lake was released after Tchaikovsky's death.

Ivan's gaze stopped at a familiar looking man sitting beside the actor Vsevolod Meyerhold. He tilted his head to get a better view of him, a feeling of importance and pride swelling in his chest. This must be what he had felt while staring at that poster. Yes, this is what he felt twenty four years ago when that little boy ran into him on the street.

The man turned and nervously looked up at the balcony, his thin, pale face accentuated by his round, black glasses. There was no mistaking it. It was _him_.

Dmitri Shostakovich was twenty nine years old. His father died before his sixteenth birthday, his mother nearly committed suicide by the time he was ready to move out, and he was married to a woman who loved him, but had no understanding of music and the power it held.

Ivan knew all of this just by looking at him. His cold, barely beating heart truly hurt for the musician.

"You look as though you have just seen a ghost, comrade," one of the high party members chuckled at him.

Ivan snapped out of his daze but ignored the man. He looked down at the program he held and blinked. His young musician's name was plastered all over it. Of course this was his opera. Ivan felt stupid for not realizing it sooner. He glanced back at Stalin, who was already tapping his fingers against his arm rest impatiently. Ivan turned back to where Dmitri was sitting and silently prayed for the performance to go well.

Unfortunately, his prayers weren't heard.

The opera was beautiful, yes. Ivan loved everything about it. But it didn't seem to please Stalin.

Comrade Stalin seemed to hate it so much that when he _did_ like something about it he ended up hating the fact that he liked it. He got up in the middle of the third act, a scowl on his face. He motioned for everyone to follow. They all hesitated, but after realizing the consequences of staying behind, they quickly got up and turned their backs on the stage.

"You may want to follow, comrade Braginsky," a fellow party member murmured.

With a sense of longing, Ivan took one last glance at the stage, and then at Dmitri, whose expression was nauseating. His face was pale, his eyes were wide with terror, and he looked as though he were already standing in front of the firing squad, just waiting for them to say the words and take their shots.

Ivan had to look away when the fragile looking composer made brief eye contact with him. He stood and quickly followed the party out of the theatre, feeling sick and disappointed. He tasted a hint of fear and panic in his mouth. He shook his head, driving Dmitri away from his thoughts and simply focusing on the car ahead of him.

In the distance he heard the police arrest Katerina and Sergei, and he could certainly relate to Sergei's pleads to be set free.

* * *

 **I have this headcanon that countries, if they really wanted to, could know one of their citizen's whole life story just by concentrating a little on them.**

 **Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District was a huge hit from 1934-1936. It had about 200 performances and was performed around the world. It was Shostakovich's last opera.**

 **In this chapter, Shostakovich is 29. He was actually sitting in the booth across from Stalin during the performance, watching as the party members snickered amongst each other during the sexual scenes and hiding his face. We can only imagine what he might have felt when he saw Stalin get up and leave.**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	3. Muddle Instead of Music

**Muddle Instead of Music**

 **1936**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

Ivan hadn't taken his eyes off of _Pravda_ for at least half an hour.

The article title screamed at him. **Muddle Instead of Music** it insisted. He had read it at least ten times now, the dread he felt growing each time. Now he simply stared at the end of the article. A threat to the composer.

 _The power of good music to infect the masses has been sacrificed to a petty-bourgeois, 'formalist' attempt to create originality through cheap clowning. It is a game of clever ingenuity that may end very badly._

Ivan finally sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if Dmitri had read it yet. The flood of emotions he felt confirmed that yes, he had read it, and he was already very afraid for his life. So afraid, that he was already thinking of his plan for when the party would arrive to take him away.

Ivan gulped and opened his eyes, returning to his own thoughts. This was silly. Why was he worried about a measly composer? He should be trusting comrade Stalin's judgement. Stalin was, after all, the leader of his nation. He should be behind his leader and teacher no matter how absurd his ideals may be.

But Ivan couldn't do it. He blindly followed the Tsars and paid dearly for it, he followed Lenin into the hands of communism, and he was not about to follow Stalin towards a life of panic and fear.

But hadn't he already?

People were being pulled from their homes and taken to camps as he sat there staring at an article in _Pravda_. His people were being murdered. And for what? Making a meaningless joke about the party? Playing their violin on the streets? Writing poems? Composing an opera?

Shaking, Ivan stood and chucked the _Pravda_ into the garbage bin. He was seeing the error in his ways, and he desperately wanted a way out.

* * *

A week later there came another article. This time about Shostakovich's ballet _The Bright Stream._ Ivan shook his head at it. This was getting out of hand. Dmitri Shostakovich's music was officially denounced, and the composer's reputation tarnished. Sadly, Ivan predicted maybe a week until he was picked up by the secret police.

Stalin was arresting people with a ruthlessness that Ivan had hardly seen before. Even when there was proof of innocence people were sent to the gulag. Shostakovich however, would probably be sent straight to the firing squad.

* * *

It was spring, and everyone that Ivan had admired and cared for was either dead or in Siberia.

Leningrad, his city of life and art, was dead and silent from fear. It made his chest ache horribly. He missed the music on the streets, the displays of art, the excited chattering and gossiping about a new play or opera. Leningrad was dying, and Ivan was forced to sit there on his sofa and watch as it crumbled.

Grumbling, Ivan stood and grabbed his coat. He shrugged it on as he shut his door. He needed to clear his head.

He didn't need to worry about anyone breaking in. His house seemed to blend in fairly easily in Leningrad. Besides, everyone knew he was a high ranking party official. They wouldn't dare break in, let alone go near his house.

It was dark, and the street lamps didn't seem to be helping. Ivan only had the odd lit up window and the moon to help guide his way. He kept his gaze low and only on the side walk in front of him. He felt strangely light headed as he passed a house where a lady screamed as her husband was murdered in front of her. He felt even more nauseated when he heard a child cry in the room next to them.

He shook his head. There was no helping them now. He couldn't do anything about it, no matter how much it pained him.

He didn't know how he got there, but he found himself grateful as he wandered down a little secluded street. The street was silent, which was rare these days. Upon further reflection, it seemed more unsettling than relaxing.

Everyone appeared to be asleep, except for a man who was pacing furiously by the window. He held a towel in his hand, and ever so often, he would dab his face, trying to dry the tears that escaped him like blood flowing from a large wound.

Ivan stumbled as a sharp pain twisted in his chest. He doubled over, tears blurring his vision. He tried to control his breathing but he couldn't seem to calm himself. He was hyperventilating, losing his breath faster than he could draw it in. And then, as fast as it started, it stopped.

Ivan turned around and briskly walked home.

* * *

Shostakovich's symphonies were banned from being played on the radio. He was an enemy of the people after all. Why would anyone risk their lives listening to him?

Ivan didn't care. Whenever he heard Shostakovich, he turned the volume up as loud as it would go. When he did it at the office, the party members would glare at him, whisper among themselves.

"Why hasn't he been taken away yet?" They would ask each other quietly.

Ivan would turn around and smile widely at them, a childish gesture that would make them start to shake with fear.

" _Да_ ," he would say with nearly genuine curiosity, "I wonder why that is."

His comrades were starting to become distant, which gave him the freedom to do what he wanted. Today, he wanted to go to the theatre, and so he did.

Instead of walking to the office, he walked to the theatre, where the Leningrad Orchestra was rehearsing something he had never heard before. It was loud, angry, and would absolutely enrage Stalin.

Ivan slipped inside quietly as they took a small break, taking a seat near the back. He scanned the area, noticing how nervous and anxious the musicians seemed to be. He was beginning to wonder why when a small man wandered up to the conductor, seeming hesitant and nervous to correct him.

The smile that stretched across Ivan's face was truly genuine. It was Dmitri Shostakovich, the composer he had thought to be at least imprisoned by now. He was overjoyed that his holy fool hadn't given up composing yet.

Ivan squirmed like a child when Dmitri returned to his seat. He straightened his posture as the conductor raised his baton, and then was suddenly thrown into a flurry of satanic sounding strings. His eyes widened and watered with terror, and his fists clenched at his sides. He looked over at little Shostakovich, who had his twitching hand covering his mouth, almost as if he was trying to muffle a scream that was threatening to escape his lips.

He could hear the party in this display of madness. He heard Stalin laughing in the background. He heard the panicked thoughts of those who were about to be executed. He could hear himself in this segment, confused and suffering as his country was thrown from one bloodbath to another.

Ivan ended up slouching back in his seat when they stopped again. He was already drained from feeling such powerful emotions. Dmitri was about to wander over to the conductor again when someone from outside called his name. Ivan turned to see who it was.

A party official who had been assigned to spy on the musicians of the conservatory. Dmitri slowly approached him, and it took everything in Ivan's power not to stop him.

The door shut behind composer and official. Ivan stared at the door for a good fifteen minutes before it opened again. Out stepped Dmitri Shostakovich, looking even more anxious than he had previously. He carried a large amount of sorrow and confusion with him as he trudged over to the conductor.

Ivan stood up and left. He already knew what had happened.

They had denounced the fourth symphony before it even came close to its premier.

* * *

 **Ivan is starting to really feel the weight of what's been happening in Leningrad.**

 **Meanwhile, even while he was being heckled by Pravda, he decided to write his fourth symphony. I find it really powerful, and it's actually one of my favourites by him. The fourth didn't see its premier until 1961. On one hand, it's sad to think that he had to keep this work hidden for so many years. On the other hand however, if he wasn't convinced to withdraw it, he would have probably been executed.**

 **Hope you enjoyed :)**


	4. After the Fourth

**Thank you cristy157 for even checking this fic out lol :)**

 **It's always nice to find a complete music nerd like myself :')**

* * *

 **After the Fourth**

 **1936**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

Night-time walks were becoming a routine for Ivan. The pains in his chest grew every day, and he found it rather hard to sleep because of it.

He wandered the streets of Leningrad, his head down, his steps somewhat unsteady. He was still recovering from what he had heard of Shostakovich's fourth. He had never heard something that portrayed his people so closely. Terror was something they were all accustomed to, and Shostakovich forced him to accept that fact.

Ivan aimlessly wandered down that same quiet street, the symphony on his mind. When he finally looked up, he faltered.

Asleep among a few bags on the landing was Shostakovich. Even in his sleep he was twitching with nervousness. Unable to help himself, Ivan slowly walked towards him, hoping not to wake the composer.

No such luck.

Dmitri jolted awake and paled when he saw him, starting to shake and ramble in a half-asleep haze.

"P-please, you needn't go into the house. I already packed," the composer pleaded with him as he finally reached the steps of the landing.

Ivan tilted his head in confusion. What was he talking about?

"Please, I beg of you. Take me, but leave my wife and child out of this," Shostakovich continued.

Ivan blinked, finally realizing what was going on. "You think...I am here to take you away?"

Dmitri didn't answer. He merely stared.

"I am here to talk to you, comrade Shostakovich. As a friend. I am not here to harm you," Ivan murmured, raising his hands in a gesture of peace and trying to reassure Dmitri.

Shostakovich looked hesitant, but he sat back down and sighed into his hands. "To what do I owe the pleasure, comrade…?"

"Braginsky. You may call me Ivan,"

"Ivan. Right," Shostakovich paused, "you seem familiar,"

"I attended your opera a few months ago and enjoyed it thoroughly,"

"Lady Macbeth?" Dmitri said with distaste. "Oh. _Oh._ You were in the booth with...with... _him_ ,"

Ivan sat on the step and nodded his head, looking up at the composer with an apology on his face. "I really had no intention of leaving," he said, subconsciously fiddling with the cuffs of his black and red uniform. "You know what would've happened if I hadn't…" he added in a hushed tone.

"I understand completely," Dmitri replied, his face filling with colour once again.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment before Ivan spoke again.

"I know you're feeling disheartened by everything that has happened. I want to let you know that I think the people need you, Shostakovich. You shouldn't give up,"

Dmitri gave him a surprised look before nodding his head. " _Спасибо_ ," he managed to say. He was about to invite the party member inside when suddenly, he was gone.

Ivan had left, feeling more at ease than he had in years.

* * *

 **Shostakovich is depressed as hell at this point (can't blame him really) and pretty much just waiting for death. Hence, why he's waiting on the landing. He didn't want the party to disturb his family when they came for him.**

 **This was pretty much just a filler chapter, but I really wanted Ivan to interact with Shostakovich instead of just stalking him like a creepy fanboy (which is totally what I would have done tbh)**

 **Thank you for reading :)**


	5. Spying on the Shostakovich Family

**Spying on the Shostakovich Family**

 **1936**

 **Moscow, Russia**

"I thought I should let you know that Shostakovich escaped execution today," Stalin drawled, looking up at Ivan with narrow eyes.

"Oh?" Ivan questioned, waiting for the Great Leader to continue.

"It appears that the man who was supposed to take him away is dead,"

"Oh,"

"Any idea what happened?"

Six hours earlier, Ivan had snuck into the man's office and sliced his throat before beating him with his lead pipe.

However, what Stalin didn't know wouldn't kill him.

"No sir," Ivan answered, "I have no idea,"

Stalin hummed and nodded his head. "You're becoming rather loyal, Braginsky. I am glad to see that you have finally come to your senses," he smiled, looking somewhat like a creepy snowman. Maybe he had some relation to General Winter.

Ivan clenched his fist. "Of course sir," he said, smiling.

"That's why I want to give you a rather important job, one that I can only trust _you_ to do," Stalin started.

Ivan nodded his head, waiting for the bumbling leader to continue.

"I need you to spy on Shostakovich. I want you watching every move he makes. If he does anything reckless, kill him, but make it look like a suicide,"

Ivan felt light headed and nauseous at the thought of murdering quite possibly one of the best composers in Russian history. Ivan was no stranger to murdering good people, but he had enough of it. But what could he do? He couldn't stand up to Stalin. He had all of the power. So, very reluctantly, Ivan nodded his head, hoping he would never have to worry about it.

"Good," Stalin said, "I knew I could count on you,"

Ivan faked a smile and left the room, becoming panicked as he exited the building. He took a train back to Leningrad, not trusting himself to just will himself there. He thought of Shostakovich and sighed, rubbing his temples.

There was something big coming, he could feel it. And the composer would be thrown right in the middle of it.

* * *

When Ivan arrived at Shostakovich's apartment, it was already dark out, but the lights were on in various different rooms. Ivan could hear the twinkling of a lullaby on the piano, the gurgling of a small child, and the laughter of the composer's wife. Ivan was extremely hesitant to break the intimate moment, but he desperately needed to tell them what Stalin had said.

He knocked on the door and instantly everything froze. Dmitri's heart was beating so loud that Ivan could hear it outside the door. He closed his eyes and saw the composer, pale and shaky, rise from his piano bench and kiss his wife and the baby before shrugging on his coat and finally open the door.

Ivan opened his eyes, and there was Shostakovich. It was rather heartbreaking how relieved he appeared to be. Ivan smiled warmly at him.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Shostakovich," he murmured, "but I must speak to you of a matter of some importance,"

Dmitri blinked in surprise but nodded his head, motioning for him to come inside. Ivan slowly walked in and took his boots off by the door, not wanting to make a mess of their floor. He followed Dmitri into the sitting room where his wife was standing, looking confused but defensive as she held their baby.

"Ivan, this is my wife Nina and our daughter Galina," Shostakovich said, his hands twitching nervously at his sides. "Nina, this is Ivan. He has something important to tell us," he finished rather awkwardly.

Nina nodded her head at him in greeting, and motioned for him to sit on the sofa. He obliged, sitting rather uncomfortably. He wasted no time explaining what had happened. He told them that he was being forced to spy on them, but reassured them that he would let them have their privacy.

Nina didn't seem to trust him, and he didn't blame her. Shostakovich, who had met him before, was still sceptical, but had decided to trust him nonetheless. It was saddening how little his people trusted one another.

Ivan stood and nodded his head once, apologizing for intruding and informing them that he would be there in the morning. They simply nodded their heads in understanding and showed him out.

As Ivan started walking away, he swore he could hear Nina and Dmitri arguing over the stressful situation they were being forced into.

Ivan sighed and made his way home, keeping his gaze low. He could only hope that they wouldn't put up a fight against him.

* * *

 **Shostakovich was supposed to meet with a member of the police at the building where everyone supposedly went before being taken to either a camp or just getting killed. He sat there for most of the day before someone there told him that his appointment was cancelled. Turns out the person was executed, at least it's implied that he was. I don't really know what happened to him.**

 **Hope you enjoyed :)**


	6. Shostakovich's Fifth

**Thank you for the awesome reviews! :D**

 **I'm so glad that people are actually reading this nerdy stuff :'D**

* * *

 **Shostakovich's Fifth**

 **1937**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

Ivan had become close friends with the Shostakovich family over the past few months. He would help Nina with cleaning and cooking, he would babysit Galina for them, and sometimes, he would even help Dmitri compose.

In his reports to Stalin, he carefully tried to reassure him that nothing was going on.

 _No they are not plotting anything._

 _Yes, I am constantly keeping watch of them._

 _No, they do not act suspicious._

In reality, Dmitri was nearly finished writing his next symphony. His largest and boldest one yet. The fifth symphony was of course, 'anti-people', but in a very subtle way. Ivan had only heard a portion of the first movement, but he could already tell that it was going to give Shostakovich his reputation back.

Stalin would be furious, but then again, when wasn't he furious?

The months flew by rather quickly. Galina had her first birthday in May. Ivan played the violin for her while her father played the piano. The months leading up to and including September went by, as did October, and then finally, it was the 21st of November. The premiere of Dmitri Shostakovich's fifth symphony.

His _creative response to just criticism._

Ivan sat next to Dmitri in the audience, worried about how sick the man looked. He had stayed up all night pacing, nervously talking to himself as his hands twitched. Now, he had that same look on his face that he had during that Moscow performance of _Lady Macbeth_. He was already in front of the firing squad, just waiting for their bullets to tear through his flesh.

The conductor came out of his hiding place backstage, and the audience clapped. Dmitri seemed to sink in his seat, his hand trembling as it covered his face.

They started with Tchaikovsky's _Romeo and Juliet_ , and while normally Ivan would've been overjoyed, today he only felt anxious. He looked over at Dmitri, whose aura was darker than his. The composer glanced at him and chuckled humorlessly.

"Do you know Oleinikov? That ditty ...about the fish in the frying pan?" He asked, his voice wavering.

Ivan shook his head. He had no idea what the composer was talking about.

" _Tiny little fishy, fried little smelt, where's your smile from yesterday, remember how it felt?_ " Dmitri muttered to him, letting out a shaky sigh afterwards.

There was an intermission, wherein everyone flooded to the hall. Shostakovich talked quietly with his friends, while Ivan stood off to the side, watching carefully. Among the group of friends was Vsevolod Meyerhold, the curious actor. Ivan hummed to himself and looked away, suddenly becoming more interested in the scarf around his neck.

When the intermission was over, they returned to their seats. Shostakovich seemed two shades paler than usual. Ivan gently placed his gloved hand on the composer's knee in reassurance. Then, the conductor raised his baton.

The fifth began.

It started boldly, grabbing everyone's attention rather quickly. Ivan felt shivers run down his spine as the first movement progressed. Hearing Dmitri play it on his piano was one thing, but hearing the full orchestra felt like a whole other level of greatness.

The second movement was genius. Ivan could hear Stalin in the bumbling horns and brass, and then the panicked, nervous soviet people in the strings. He smiled when he caught some of the satire in it later on, glancing at Shostakovich, who seemed to be in a world of his own.

The third movement was entirely different from the rest.

Gone was the satire, the bumbling horns and brass, the panicked strings. In its place there was only melancholy. There were haunting melodies that left Ivan melting back into his seat. As the movement continued, he made the mistake of looking around the room.

Everyone was crying.

Suddenly, Ivan felt a tidal wave of emotion. Everyone in the room was mourning, and it made his throat and his chest sting painfully. He could feel everything that everyone else was feeling, but it was amplified by the amount of emotion in the room. He tried to keep himself composed as breathing became difficult. Finally, the pain became unbearable. He stood and swayed slightly, grabbing the back of Shostakovich's seat to support himself.

"Where are you going?" Dmitri asked him, getting ready to stand as well. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Washroom," Ivan choked out. He hurried from the room and into the hall, searching for the men's washroom. When he found the door, he quickly opened it and stepped inside, closing the door and locking it. His head ached with all of the sorrow his people were feeling.

He leaned his forehead against the wall behind the toilet, his chest heaving, his eyes watering. He became sick, bent over the toilet and holding his stomach.

Finally, he gave in to the emotions and wept.

* * *

Ivan calmed down halfway through the fourth movement, although the pains in his chest and head didn't leave. He simply stood in the washroom, washing his face and trying to make it seem as if nothing happened. Dmitri would likely be worried about him, but he couldn't let the composer see how weak he actually was. It was rare for Ivan to care about what others thought of him, but after hearing and seeing the power that Dmitri actually possessed, he felt a little like he couldn't show weakness around the composer.

Before he could fully collect himself however, the symphony was over. Ivan could hear them clapping from where he leaned against the sink. Their feelings of amazement did nothing for him. He was still a shaky mess, and he wasn't entirely sure if he was going to be able to make it out of the theatre.

The audience was still applauding when he heard people outside of his hiding spot.

"Come _on_ Dima! If you stay here too long they might think something suspicious!"

Ivan raised his head in surprise. He recognized the voice. It was the actor Meyerhold.

"Please just wait a second," Dmitri's voice sounded way too soft compared to his music, Ivan thought.

Footsteps approached the washroom door. There was a knock.

"Ivan?" It was Dmitri, sounding concerned. "Are you still in there?"

Ivan fiddled with his scarf. " _Да,_ " he replied.

"Is everything okay?"

Ivan turned, took some shaky steps, and opened the door, standing face to face with Dmitri. "I was sick," he said, "I think I'm fine now." he lied quickly.

However, when he took another step forward, his head felt as if it were being split open. He wobbled, and if Dmitri and Meyerhold hadn't stabilized him, he would have likely fallen.

"Easy there comrade," Meyerhold said, sending him a charming grin. "How much did you have to drink tonight? Don't lie now,"

Ivan couldn't find the energy to answer.

"He hasn't had anything," Dmitri answered for him, noticing his struggle to form words. "I've been with him all night," he added.

"Must be a terrible illness. We should get him to a doctor," Meyerhold commented as they struggled to help him out of the building.

" _Нет, нет,"_ Ivan murmured, finally finding his voice, "takes too long. Costs too much," _and a waste of time, considering I can't be cured of being in touch with everyone's feelings._ He added bitterly in his head.

"He's right," Dmitri said as they helped Ivan into the back seat of Meyerhold's car. He sat next to him and shut the door, gently keeping his hand on Ivan's shoulder to help hold him up. "Just take him back to mine, Vsevolod. He might just need some rest,"

Incredibly grateful and relieved, Ivan sighed and sunk into the seat of the car, closing his eyes as he did. A moment ago, he was greatly concerned about seeming weak. Now, he was too tired to care. Besides, he had realized that it was ridiculous to think of it. Shostakovich was not a man who thought himself above everyone else.

Suddenly, Dmitri gently shook him. Ivan's eyes snapped open and he gave the composer a look.

" _Прости,_ Vanya," Dmitri murmured softly, "I think it would be better if you stayed awake for awhile…"

"Just in case I die in my sleep?" Ivan added quietly, with a dark chuckle.

The car fell silent until Meyerhold finally spoke up. Ivan drowsily listened to him tell stories as the sounds and feelings from the theatre died away. His head still hurt, but it was mostly from how tired he was.

As they drove down the road, Ivan thought with bitterness about what was happening to him. Stalin was not only ruining his country, but ruining him too, ripping him apart and putting him back together just so he could rip him into pieces again. Nowadays, there wasn't a day that went by without a few mind numbing headaches or throbbing chest and neck wounds.

Meyerhold nearly drove past Dmitri's apartment and slammed the breaks, causing Ivan to jolt out of his thoughts. Dmitri shot the actor a displeased look, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Here we are, Dimochka! I adored seeing you again," Meyerhold said with a smile. He turned to Ivan. "It was very nice meeting you...Ivan was it?"

Ivan smiled and nodded his head, or at least made an attempt to. "Same to you," he replied hoarsely.

Dmitri helped him out of the car and shut the door. They waited for Meyerhold to leave before slowly making their way to the door. Ivan was dizzy, but he managed to get inside of the apartment nonetheless. He was led into the sitting room where he was gently placed on the sofa.

" _Спасибо,_ Mitya," Ivan murmured, weakly patting the composer's hand.

Dmitri looked puzzled at the nickname before he nodded his head, his mouth twitching into an awkward smile.

"I loved the symphony," Ivan said with a yawn, "I'm sorry I missed the ending,"

"Truly?"

" _Да,_ "

" _Спасибо_ ,'

Ivan smiled and closed his eyes, finally drifting off to sleep. Even while he was asleep he could hear the fifth, and he could already see Stalin's reaction to it.

* * *

 **I'm not really sure if Meyerhold actually came to the premier or not, or if he even had a car, but for writing purposes, he did :)**

 **Also Shostakovich's wife might have been there, but I don't really know :/**

 **Ah the fifth... :') :')**

 **Okay so literally this symphony was received so well that the audience stood and applauded for half an hour at the premier. Apparently everyone cried during the third movement, which I really don't blame them. The fifth gave Shostakovich his reputation back, even though some party officials were suspicious of the turnout and were sceptical about how many people actually liked it.**

 **I added Meyerhold just because I like his relationship with Shostakovich. Apparently he called him very affectionate names and treated him like his own son.**

 **Anyway, now about Ivan.**

 **I'm a terrible person really. I think with all of those emotions going on during the third movement he absolutely had to feel something. But I made it amplified by like 10399303 because I'm a horrible person lmao**

 **Thank you for reading this far!**


	7. The Rigged Symphony

**ABCSonicKirbyWarriors: Thank you for your nice comments :) I'm really really happy you started listening to Shostakovich again because of this fic! It makes me feel very determined to continue this :D**

* * *

 **The** **Rigged** **Symphony**

 **1937**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

When he woke the next day, Dmitri was sitting across from him, smoking as he read _Pravda_. Ivan blinked and slowly sat up, relieved when he found that his head had stopped hurting.

" _Доброе утро,"_ Shostakovich said, glancing at his watch in amusement. "Or should I say _добрый день?_ "

Feeling rather grumpy and unamused by the composer's humor, he shot him a glare and looked at his own watch. Dmitri only laughed as he squinted at the numbers in disbelief.

"It's almost one," Ivan grumbled, "why didn't you wake me sooner?"

Dmitri moved out of the way as Ivan threw the covers off and stood, wobbling slightly but finally finding his feet after a moment. He looked at the blanket and sighed. They must have put it on him last night while he was asleep.

"You needed sleep. Do you remember how sick you were last night? We nearly had to carry you out of the theatre," Dmitri said pointedly.

Ivan was about to argue when Nina walked into the room holding Galina on one arm and a pile of letters in the other hand. She said good afternoon to Ivan, which Dmitri smirked at, before putting the letters on the table and sorting them.

"Dmitri, Dmitri, Dmitri, oh, the Shostakovich Family! Dmitri, Dmitri," she listed off the names of who they were addressed to, which was mostly Dmitri, until finally, she came to the last one. "...Marshal of the Soviet Union, Ivan Braginsky,"

He could feel himself pale and sat down, reaching over to the letter with shaking hands. He glanced up at the family, who hadn't known his official ranking, and looked greatly surprised by it.

Rather unpleasant thoughts ran through Ivan's head.

 _They won't trust you anymore._

 _You won't be welcome here._

 _Stalin will ship you to Siberia._

The room fell silent as Ivan opened the envelope and took out the letter. It was an official letter from Generalissimo Stalin himself. Feeling even more nauseous with every sentence he read, he finally stopped and stood back up.

"I'm really sorry, but I have to go. Our...our Great Leader requires my presence," Ivan found himself stammering.

He left before he could see the looks on their faces.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me he was making another symphony?" Stalin asked quietly, his tone sending tremors down Ivan's spine. Stalin was furious. More than furious. _Livid_.

"I didn't know he was writing anything, sir," Ivan lied, his gloved hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"How could you _not_? You were watching him the entire time!"

"He must have written it while I was asleep sir,"

Stalin growled loudly and flung something off of his desk, standing as he did. Ivan was using all of his strength to keep his face emotionless. He couldn't show Stalin how terrified he was. He couldn't give him that satisfaction.

"This is your first and final warning, Braginsky. No more surprises, or you will be facing the consequences," Stalin bellowed, "now leave!"

Ivan didn't have to be told twice.

* * *

A few days later, the second performance of the fifth was scheduled at the Leningrad theatre.

Ivan hadn't been back at Shostakovich's apartment since he had had that meeting with Stalin, but he was going to this second performance of the fifth. He knew that Stalin had sent spies over to see why everyone loved the symphony so much, so he had to go make sure everything went smoothly.

Ivan didn't know why he was so worried. At the end of the performance, everyone, including himself, gave it a standing ovation. As people flooded into the hall however, he heard something that troubled him.

Someone was yelling about the audience being hand picked, about how rigged the symphony was. Narrowing his eyes, Ivan snuck up behind them before throwing his arms around the two of them.

" _Привет_ , comrades!" He said with a cheerfulness that had the men shaking with fear. "Excellent symphony, _да_?"

"C-comrade Braginsky!" They said in unison, turning to look at him. They both paled at the grin on his face.

"It-it was amazing, truly," one of them stammered.

" _Да, да_ , best one this year!" The other exclaimed shrilly.

"I think so too," Ivan agreed, smiling even wider. " I think this symphony will be one of the greatest in soviet history!"

They glanced at each other and shakily nodded their heads at him. They spewed out agreements faster than Ivan had thought was possible. Deciding to quit torturing them, he bid his farewell and left the building, smirking as they tried to collect themselves after the encounter.

* * *

When Ivan got home to his house in Leningrad, he was a little disturbed to find his door not all the way closed. He cautiously opened it all the way and took out his metal pipe before stepping inside. He quietly shut the door and shrugged his coat off, hanging it on the rack. Then, he carefully took off his scarf and rolled up the sleeves of his long-sleeved turtleneck.

Holding his metal pipe like a baseball bat, Ivan quietly snuck around the house until he confirmed that there was no one there.

When he came back downstairs, he felt a little stupid.

There was a letter on the table by the door. He was friends with the mail deliverer, so they must have just put it inside instead of in his little compartment outside.

Dreading what it might contain, Ivan opened the envelope with caution. He was greatly relieved to find that it wasn't from an official party member, but curiously, it was from Dmitri Shostakovich.

 _Marshal Ivan Braginsky,_

 _I am not sure if this letter will get to you, but I am hoping it will._

 _I read the contents of the letter you received from Stalin and felt like I was personally responsible for your misfortune. I have not heard from you in a few days, and am genuinely concerned._

 _Nina and I are worried for your safety. We assure you that from now on we will do everything we can to ensure it._

 _If you are still in Leningrad please contact us to at least let us know how you are doing._

 _-D. D. Shostakovich_

Ivan turned the envelope over. There was a little note on the flap that he hadn't seen before.

 _Your house is too easy to break into._

Ivan laughed and placed the envelope and letter in his pants pocket before wandering upstairs to his bedroom. He made a mental note to visit the Shostakovich family the following morning.

Ivan changed into his pyjamas and climbed into his bed, feeling at ease for the first time after Stalin came into power.

* * *

 **Before I get into explaining this chapter, I would just like to say that I am incredibly saddened by what happened in Orlando over the weekend. My thoughts are with everyone who was affected by this tragedy, and I sincerely wish the best to my LGBT brothers, sisters, and/or others.**

 **Okay so**

 **Long story short, the party thought it was realllyy sketchy that everyone enjoyed the fifth symphony. They sent two NKVD agents from Moscow to check it out, because they thought that the only reason it was successful was because everyone in the theatre was Shostakovich's friend (because composers naturally just have so many friends that they can fill a theatre). The symphony was not considered anti-soviet or formalist so it restored Shostakovich's reputation and gave him some time to breathe a bit.**

 **Oh, Ivan.**

 **So I'm not really sure what Stalin's reaction was to the symphony, but knowing him, it was probably not very good. Hence, the spies at the second performance.**

 **I think Ivan didn't go back to Shostakovich's apartment right away because of two things.**

 **1: I think he was afraid that he wouldn't be welcome back. Marshal was just one rank under Generalissimo after all, and having someone so high up in the party at your house was bound to be stress inducing. I think he liked Shostakovich too much to force himself back into the house after something that important was revealed about him.**

 **2: I think he also needed time for himself. After the incident at the premier and then Stalin being a douche (like always), naturally you would want some time to think things through.**

 **I created the letter scenario because despite how creepy and tough and ruthless Ivan is portrayed as, I think he's still very fragile and sensitive, and maybe even innocent. I think he needed to know that he was wanted back so he could go "do his job" and "spy" on Shostakovich.**

 **Thank you for reading!**


	8. Россия

**Once again, thank you ABCSonicKirbyWarriors for your really kind reviews :D I like hearing what you think of the chapters :)**

* * *

 _ **Россия**_

 **1937-1938**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

Ivan took a deep breath as he stood outside of Shostakovich's door. He had been standing there for a good five minutes, debating on whether he should actually knock or not and trying to plan out what he was going to say. He couldn't exactly just waltz in, so he was going to have to figure out a speech of some kind.

Apparently, he didn't have to. As soon as Ivan was about to knock, Dmitri had opened the door, holding a trash bag.

"Ivan!" He exclaimed. He put the bag down and hugged the bewildered Marshal. Ivan briefly hugged him back, immediately feeling guilty for not visiting sooner. They pulled away, Dmitri smiling genuinely at him.

"We were rather worried about you," he said, "when we didn't hear from you we thought…"

He didn't have to continue. Ivan knew what he was implying.

"I'm sorry I didn't contact you sooner," Ivan murmured, subconsciously fiddling with the ends of his scarf.

" _Нет_ , don't worry about it. We're just glad you're okay,"

After Dmitri put the trash on the edge of the road, he invited Ivan inside. As soon as he set foot into the house, little Galina squealed loudly and stumbled towards him. He smiled and picked her up, handing her to Nina when she walked into the room to see what was going on.

"It's nice to see you, Ivan," she said.

He nodded his head to her as if to return the sentiment. Dmitri and Ivan sat in the sitting room while Nina left the room with Galina. Dmitri took out a smoke and lit it, puffing thoughtfully before turning to Ivan.

"I hate to ask this so soon, but it's been bothering me since you left," he said, nervousness on the edges of his voice.

Ivan smiled kindly and nodded his head for Dmitri to continue.

"I was just wondering...how are you already a Marshal? You're...in your mid-twenties at the most…" Dmitri said, "...I think," he added slowly.

Ivan frowned to himself. He was debating whether to tell the composer or not.

"I also thought there were only five Marshals," the nervous man continued, "and they already replaced…"

"Tukhachevsky," Ivan finished, " _да_ , you're right," he paused, finally making his decision. "Come with me,' he murmured, standing and motioning for Dmitri to follow.

Confused, but still intrigued, Dmitri stood and told Nina they were leaving before following him out the door.

* * *

They stopped at Ivan's house, looking up at it before Ivan opened the door and held it for Dmitri.

"You should consider locking it when you leave," Dmitri commented.

"Nobody notices the house anyway. I make sure of it,"

Dmitri frowned but nodded his head and stepped inside. He had been in for maybe a minute to drop off the letter, but never really got a good look at it.

Everything looked as though it was from before the revolution. The walls were coloured like the Tsar's palace and there was a large portrait of the Romanov family on the wall by the entrance to the sitting room. In a darker corner of the foyer, there was a portrait of Stalin that was slanted on the wall. It glared at them as they walked past and up the stairs.

They stopped in front of a closed door as Ivan fumbled with the keys he had pulled out of his pocket. He was shaky and nervous. He didn't want Dmitri to think he was insane. He didn't want Stalin to find out anyone knew.

Finally, with Dmitri's help, Ivan found the key and unlocked the door. He took a deep breath before opening it and turning on the light.

Dmitri gasped beside him.

The room was filled with old relics, covered up paintings, and other various things that a man in his mid-twenties would never possess.

Ivan walked up to one of the covered up paintings and handed it to Dmitri. "You may not believe what you are about to see, but I assure you, this is real," he murmured, stepping away from the composer.

Dmitri glanced at him in confusion before slowly taking the cover off of the painting. He didn't say anything. He simply stood and stared at it. Ivan gulped awkwardly and fiddled with his scarf again. He was going to have to ask Katerina to fix the ends for him if he kept it up.

"That is...me standing behind the first Tsar of Russia, Mykhail," Ivan said. "He insisted that I be a part of his portrait. He had the poor painter make two copies. He said 'be sure to make another one for _Россия_ , by rights, this should be _his_ royal portrait'."

" _Россия_?" Dmitri murmured.

" _Да_ , I am...the personification of this nation. I practically am this nation," Ivan explained further, "I feel what the people are feeling, I feel everything that happens on this land. That's why I was so sick during your fifth. Everyone was deeply moved by it, it was so overwhelming,"

Dmitri was silent, still looking down at the painting.

"I'm...very sorry," Ivan finally said, his eyes downcast.

"What for?" Dmitri asked softly. Ivan glanced up to see that he was looking at him with curiosity and kindness in his expression.

"Everything," Ivan decided to answer, sitting down on a crate and putting his head in his hands.

Dmitri frowned and carefully set the painting down. He walked over to the nation and put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me more, Vanya" he murmured, "I genuinely want to know,"

So Ivan told him. He told him about the first memory he had. He told him about the other nations, about General Winter, his sisters, Ivan the Terrible, the Tsars, Lenin, and finally, Stalin.

"There is something I don't quite understand," Dmitri interrupted, "why is it that all of these leaders have power over you and not you over them? By rights, you should be the one controlling Stalin,"

Ivan hummed. "They are the ones who create your laws and make all of the decisions. They have complete control , which means I am technically powerless against them," he answered, fiddling with his scarf again.

"So this is why you're only a Marshal,"

" _Да,"_

"He doesn't want you to have any more power than you already have,"

" _Д-да_ ,"

Dmitri shook his head in disbelief. "What a brute," he muttered.

"A _мудак,"_

Dmitri chuckled slightly. " _Да, он у ет мудак,_ "

After showing Dmitri some other paintings and old relics, they decided to head back to Dmitri's apartment.

Ivan locked the door to his house behind him, catching Dmitri smirk in an almost triumphant manner before they set off to his apartment.

* * *

A few days passed without much change. Dmitri had announced that he was starting his sixth symphony, but in reality, he wasn't planning it until later the next year. Although he had announced it on the radio, Ivan still had to send a letter to Stalin informing him of the composer's plans. He didn't want a repeat of last time.

* * *

Christmas came with Ivan finding himself alone. Katyusha was dealing with her own problems, and there was no way he was having Christmas dinner with Natalia. He had already dropped his gifts to the Shostakovich family off at the house, and he felt as if he shouldn't intrude on their holidays.

So, Ivan sat on his sofa in silence, drinking from a bottle of vodka he had opened a week ago. He ended up chugging it and moving on to the next one without break.

He was starting to feel rather overheated. He took off his sweater and ended up in just a T-shirt. He chuckled darkly to himself. This was the epitome of depressing. He was drunk and alone at Christmas.

Just as Ivan was about to pour himself another glass, there was a knock on the door. Not caring about his appearance, Ivan opened the door with a hello.

Standing in front of him was Dmitri Shostakovich, his eyebrow raised in confusion. Ivan quickly retreated and grabbed his scarf, hastily wrapping it around his neck before standing in front of Dmitri again.

"Mitya, why are you…" Ivan rubbed his eyes, "what are you doing here?"

Dmitri didn't answer, he simply looked past Ivan into the dark, empty house. "You're alone?" He asked in disbelief.

Ivan smiled at the composer's tone. " _Да_ ," he murmured, "Katyusha has affairs in Ukraine. I do not want to see Natalia, and all of the other nations are at Alfred's...oh...uh...America's two week long New Year's party,"

Dmitri frowned. "You weren't invited?"

" _Нет_ ," Ivan said, trying to stay smiling, "I never am,"

Different emotions flitted over Dmitri's face. He was confused, then he was angry, and then, he simply looked sad. "Get your coat," he finally said.

Ivan frowned, but was too drunk to argue, so he pulled on his coat and gloves and stepped rather unsteadily outside.

Ivan quietly followed Dmitri down the road towards the composer's apartment. His chest felt warm in the freezing cold weather, but he couldn't tell whether it was all of the vodka or Dmitri's kindness.

They arrived at Dmitri's apartment in a matter of minutes. The composer opened the door and announced that he was home. Nina poked her head around the corner and smiled at the two of them.

" _Привет_ Ivan," she said, "I was hoping Dima would invite you over,"

Dmitri put his coat on the rack, followed by Ivan, who kept his scarf and gloves on. They led him to the table, where he sat in between Galina and Dmitri. Little Galina was attentive and smiling at him, reaching her little fingers out towards him. He smiled and let her grab on to his gloved finger.

A few moments later, there was a plate of food in front of him and a glass of wine. Ivan blinked and quietly murmured his thanks before picking up his fork and taking a bite.

Ivan was silent for most of the meal, smiling and laughing when Dmitri or Nina made a joke or told a story, but never really saying anything. By the end of the meal, he had one serving of everything, and had two more glasses of wine. He was definitely drunk, giggling relentlessly as he watched Galina play with the vegetables on her plate.

Dmitri poured the last bit of wine into his glass and prepared a toast. "Here's to life not getting any merrier!" He said with his best Stalin impression.

Ivan howled with laughter as they moved on to the next bottle.

* * *

"Mitya, Mitya,"

" _Да…?"_

"... _дерьмо._ I forgot…"

It was two in the morning and Ivan, who was disastrously drunk, was being escorted back to his apartment by Dmitri, who seemed to be nearly sober. The composer had his arm linked with Ivan's in case the nation suddenly fell over.

Ivan had been rambling about absolutely nothing for the past five minutes, giggling at something and then suddenly becoming very serious. Mood swings were common for Ivan when he was drunk. He had meant to tell Dmitri that, but then he became so drunk he forgot.

"Okay Ivan, we're at your apartment," Dmitri said as they finally stopped in front of Ivan's home.

Ivan smiled widely and thanked him, un-linking their arms and almost tripping when he took a few steps towards the door. Dmitri kept a hand on his back to steady him as he opened the door.

"Home sweet home," Ivan said sarcastically, taking off his boots, coat, gloves, and scarf. He threw them on the floor and stumbled further into the house, where Dmitri followed him like a mother following their hyperactive child.

He didn't comment on the thousands of jagged scars that decorated Ivan's neck, and if Ivan were sober, he would've felt ashamed, but grateful for Dmitri's silence.

But right now, he was drunk, and instead of climbing up the stairs, he simply laid down on them. He smiled up at Dmitri when he stood over him in amusement.

"Come on, time to get up," Dmitri said, "I have something for you,"

Ivan sat up and reached out his hand, motioning for Dmitri to help him. Rolling his eyes, the composer pulled him up, making sure he was steady before pulling out a package from his inner coat pocket.

Ivan eyed it carefully before he took it, wobbling slightly when he discovered how heavy it was.

He ripped it open. His eyes widened and then watered without warning.

Inside the package was a volume of Mayakovsky's poems, a collection of Tchaikovsky sheet music for violin, and finally, the manuscript for the fifth symphony.

"Ivan...are you... _crying_?" Dmitri asked, sounding panicked.

Ivan put the gifts down and wiped his face. " _Н-нет,_ " he lied lamely, hiccuping.

"Er...of-of course not," Dmitri stuttered, at a loss of what to do. "I must be seeing things,"

Ivan suddenly started sobbing, wiping his face with the sleeves of his shirt.

"O-okay, okay," Dmitri murmured, his hands twitching nervously. "Everything's okay, Vanya...er...I can return them if-"

Ivan tackled him, wrapping his arms around the frail composer and hugging him tightly. " _Спасибо_ Mitya, _Большое спасибо_!" He exclaimed, burying his face into the shocked composer's shoulder.

Dmitri awkwardly patted his back. It was obvious that he was making a mental note about Ivan's behaviour while drunk. Ivan couldn't seem to care at the moment. He was hiccuping and trying to control himself. Finally, he seemed to calm down enough to slur out some words.

"That was...nicest thing...anyone has given me since…" Ivan paused, pulling away and wiping his face, "since...long time,"

Dmitri smiled with both sadness and amusement. Ivan could tell that he was definitely not going to be drinking on his own anymore.

The composer led him to his sofa and carefully helped set him down. Ivan thanked him again, watching him warmly as he sat in the armchair across from the sofa.

"You don't have to stay," Ivan slurred, closing his eyes.

Dmitri laughed. "I'm not going anywhere until the morning. You're too drunk to be left alone,"

Ivan grinned, his eyes still closed. "True," he agreed.

He fell asleep as Dmitri chuckled at him, secretly hoping that he wouldn't remember anything in the morning.

* * *

 **HISTORYY TIIMMMEEE (the most boring part of each chapter!)**

 **K so**

 **Marshal of the Soviet Union was the military rank just bellow Generalissimo, which was Stalin's rank. There were only five marshals, Tukhachevsky being one of them. He was a good friend of Shostakovich's, and he was shot in 1937 because Stalin believed he would become the next napoleon (? wtf Stalin). He was one of the best military theorists in the soviet union, and if he was still around when the second world war broke out, maybe Russia wouldn't have lost so many lives during operation Barbarossa, or maybe, Operation Barbarossa would've been a failure. Who knows?**

 **I like to think Ivan is a sap and keeps like everything as a memento.**

 **Shostakovich's sixth was supposed to be this huge symphony that praised Lenin using a big choir section and everything. Instead, the sixth is a short symphony that portrays a melancholy in the first movement and then joy and youth in the last two.**

 **Okay, according to Google, Russian Orthodox Christmas is on the 7th of January, hence why America is throwing his huge New Year's party while Ivan is getting drunk at Christmas. If this is wrong I'm very sorry I'm Canadian and don't know anything about Russian holidays.**

 **Ivan's gifts:**

 **Mayakovsky was the most celebrated soviet poet. Tchaikovsky is the most celebrated Russian composer, and the fifth symphony i just threw in there because i thought it would be adorable.**

 **Headcanon that Russia is a very unpredictable and unstable drunk.**

 **Thank you for reading!**


	9. Meyerhold

**Cristy157: Thank you so much :D the seventh is probably my second favourite. The fifth is my first :)**

 **ABCSonicKirbyWarriors: It's okay :) I hope you're enjoying yourself! Thank you for taking the time to review even though it's probably not most convenient :)) I'm also very glad to hear that you like history time lmao**

* * *

 **Meyerhold**

 **1938**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

Ivan and Dmitri became nearly inseparable after the Christmas incident. They would mostly stay at the composer's apartment, helping Nina around the home, for she had just given birth to their second child, Maxim.

They spent a lot of time with the actor Vsevolod Meyerhold, who was quite the character.

Ivan liked him a lot, so much so that he had invited him and his family over for dinner a few times. They were kind people, and very optimistic. Vsevolod had tried to raise awareness about the restrictions of creativity Stalin was forcing on the people. Ivan was grateful for it, but Vsevolod was paying for it.

He had lost his theatre company along with his troupe of actors. Now he was simply doing odd jobs to make money. Ivan made sure to "accidentally" leave money at the house for them when he visited.

One night in June, Dmitri, one of his friends, and Ivan were heading back from a football match. Dmitri and his friend were drunk, giggling about people that were in the audience as well as the players on the field. Ivan, for once, was sober, making sure they all got home safe.

They arrived at Dmitri's apartment, snickering quietly as Dmitri fumbled with his keys. Ivan watched in amusement as he dropped them and picked them up before dropping them again and repeating the process.

From the other side of the street behind them, Ivan turned and could see the actor Meyerhold make his way towards them. The actor was about to say hello when he noticed how intoxicated Dmitri was. He stood beside Ivan, his head tilted in confusion.

When Dmitri finally seemed to have a hold on his keys, Ivan chuckled.

"You're so cruel, Vanya." Meyerhold said, amusement in his tone.

"What? It's funny," Ivan smiled.

Meyerhold smirked and walked over to Dmitri, patting him on the back. "I take it your team won, Dima?"

Dmitri squinted at Meyerhold for a moment before he seemed to recognise him. He grinned up at the actor. "Of course they did, Seva," he said matter-of-factly, "they always do."

Meyerhold glanced back at Ivan, who was covering his mouth with his fist in an attempt to keep his laughter in. Dmitri dropped his keys and swore loudly, at which his friend laughed at.

"Dima, how many drinks did you have?" Meyerhold asked, chuckling.

"Two…" He said with confidence. Meyerhold raised an eyebrow. "... _welve_. One two,"

"You are going to get alcohol poisoning," Vsevolod muttered, gently taking Dmitri's keys and unlocking the door for him.

" _Спасибо_ , Seva!" Dmitri exclaimed, taking his keys back. "Why don't you come in for tea?"

Vsevolod shook his head. "Нет, I need to get home," he murmured, putting a hand on Dmitri's shoulder.

Dmitri frowned, seeming to sober a little. "Are you okay?" He asked.

Ivan was paying closer attention now. Meyerhold did look stressed, afraid even.

"I'm okay, Dimochka. You just stay safe, okay?" Vsevolod said with uncharacteristic seriousness.

Dmitri seemed to accept the answer, nodding his head and smiling. Ivan however, found himself reading Vsevolod.

He was afraid because he knew, or at least he thought he knew, he was being followed. He knew the NKVD was on to him. He was regretting everything he had been doing the past few months, but at the same time, he was glad to have tried to protect the people's artistic freedom. Especially Dmitri's.

"We need to work together again," Dmitri said, his goofy smile pulling Ivan from Vsevolod. "Why don't we talk about it tomorrow?"

Meyerhold chuckled warmly. " _Да_ , we can talk about it tomorrow Dima," he said.

They said their goodbyes and Ivan offered to walk Vsevolod home. He was tired from the long night and since Ivan lived close to the Meyerhold family, he decided to go with him.

They walked in silence for the first few moments until Meyerhold suddenly stopped. "You know, don't you?" He asked.

"Hm?"

"You know that they're watching me,"

"Hm."

Meyerhold sighed, scratching his head. "I wanted to tell Dima, I really did." He said, "I wanted to tell him that...they're watching me and I might not be around much longer,"

"You can't say that." Ivan murmured.

"But I _feel_ it, Vanya," Meyerhold despaired, "I'm not going to be around much longer,"

They fell silent. Ivan looked down at his boots, suddenly becoming interested in the small scuff marks at the toes. Meyerhold put his hands on the Marshal's shoulders and lowered himself to meet his eyes.

"Vanya, we have become such good friends, and I am grateful for that," Vsevolod nearly whispered, "you have been constantly looking out for me. I know you keep leaving that money for us. I know what's happening, Vanya. You must look after yourself now. You never know what might happen when he finds out you were friends with me,"

Ivan growled, "I don't care what happens to me. I don't care. Too many people are being taken away," Ivan took a deep breath and paused. He stood a little straighter, determination shining in his violet eyes. "You are _not_ going to be one of them," he hissed.

Meyerhold smiled sadly. "I am over sixty years old, Ivan. Even if it happens, would it really be such a loss?"

Ivan wanted to _scream_. He wanted to shake Vsevolod and tell him _yes! It would be an incredible loss!_

But Meyerhold was gone, and Ivan never saw him again.

* * *

Ivan and Dmitri heard the news the next day. Vsevolod Meyerhold had been arrested for crimes against the people. Ivan sighed and put his head in his hands.

"I will phone Stalin immediately," he said shakily. "I will try to fix this,"

Dmitri stood by as Ivan dialed the number to Stalin's desk. He looked just as nervous and anxious as Ivan felt.

Stalin's voice echoed in the phone.

"I have heard that Vsevolod Meyerhold has been arrested," Ivan began, glancing back at Dmitri in nervousness.

" _Да_? What about it? Get to the point, Braginsky," Stalin grumbled.

"Sir...Meyerhold is a good friend of mine. He is a valuable member of the Soviet Union...I believe you should reconsider-"

" _Enough_."

Ivan jumped at the sudden harshness.

"Marshal Braginsky, I believe you should reconsider what you're doing here. Otherwise, you will find yourself being tortured in Siberia,"

Ivan's blood ran cold as the line went dead. His mind flashed through all of the horrible things they could do to him in Siberia. Hell, even in a regular jail cell in Leningrad or Moscow. He would be stuck there forever. It wasn't like he could die or anything. Endless days of torture would be inevitable.

"Vanya? Vanya, what happened?" Dmitri was suddenly in front of him, hands on his shoulders to steady him. Ivan realised that he was shaking and breathing rather harshly.

He looked into Dmitri's panicked eyes. "He's going to send me to Siberia. Mitya, he's going to…"

"Hush...hush…"

Ivan found himself being sat down in a chair. Dmitri left the room and came back with a glass of water. He handed it to Ivan who gulped it down and readjusted his scarf so it wasn't so tight on his neck.

Dmitri asked him what happened.

Ivan told him.

Dmitri rubbed his face with his twitching hands and sat down.

Ivan pulled his scarf over his mouth to hide his trembling lips.

Ivan stayed at the Shostakovich apartment for the next week and a half. He couldn't trust himself at home, and he couldn't trust that he wouldn't be taken away while he was alone.

* * *

A month later, Ivan was playing cards with Dmitri when suddenly, the composer gasped in shock. Ivan tilted his head in confusion, until suddenly, he couldn't see.

"Vanya your eyes are...they're _bleeding_!"

Ivan swallowed thickly and tried to stay calm. He could feel the blood trickling down his face, although strangely, he couldn't feel any pain.

"Mitya, I can't see," he murmured, reaching out towards him.

Dmitri took his hand. Ivan could feel him trembling through his gloves.

"It's...fine...I just need to concentrate on why I'm bleeding," Ivan said, trying to calm him. "It happens a lot,"

"It...happens a lot…" Dmitri echoed in disbelief. " _A lot_? Ivan, this shouldn't be normal."

Ivan didn't answer him. He simply concentrated.

And then he regretted that he had.

Before him stood Meyerhold's wife. She was folding the laundry as she hummed an old love song. It happened so fast. The windows smashed open, Raikh screamed, two men held her down and stabbed her, gauging her eyes out as they laughed.

Ivan sucked in a breath. "It's Raikh," he said.

"Meyerhold's wife? What happened to her?"

"She's dead."

The silence was thick. Ivan wouldn't be able to see the tears in Dmitri's eyes for another five minutes. When his vision returned, he was horrified to find a large puddle of blood all over the table and the cards. His uniform was covered in it, and his face felt sticky.

"Mitya…" He said quietly, squeezing his hand. The composer shook his head.

"He loved her so much," he murmured. "I didn't think such love was possible." He paused. "It really makes you think. The best way to hold on to something is to not pay any attention to it. The things you love too much perish,"

Ivan frowned. He could feel his heart ache terribly.

"Your eyes have stopped bleeding," Dmitri murmured. "Can you see?"

" _Да_ ,"

Dmitri nodded his head and stood, letting go of Ivan's hand. He left the room and came back with a cloth to wash off the blood on Ivan's face. Ivan took it and washed his face before standing and looking at the damage. He took the jacket part of the uniform off and ran to his kitchen. He filled a pot full of cold water and stuck it inside. The stain was still relatively fresh, so it should come out fairly easy.

Ivan looked down at his blood soaked scarf as Dmitri walked in. He bit his lip and slowly took it off. He put it in the pot with the jacket and grabbed a dish towel to wrap around his neck. Dmitri pretended not to see anything, which Ivan was incredibly grateful for.

They both soaked a cloth in cold water and proceeded to scrub the blood off of the table and floor. When they were finally finished, Ivan couldn't do anything but stare at the spot in disgust, even though it was clean now.

They threw out the playing cards. Ivan gave Dmitri a new pack.

They hugged, and Dmitri left, leaving Ivan alone with his dark thoughts.

* * *

The Sixth symphony premiered a few months later. It was huge. Everyone loved it. It won the Stalin award.

"I don't want this garbage," Dmitri had muttered to Ivan.

"This award is basically your protection. This is your life,"

It wasn't long after that Ivan was posted back to Moscow. Dmitri didn't need to be spied on anymore. They wrote letters and visited at least a few times a month, but Dmitri needed to spend more time with his family, and Ivan needed to uphold his cold image in the military.

They lost touch, but somehow Ivan knew that they would meet again. Sooner than he thought.

* * *

 **So this was a pretty dark and disturbing chapter.**

 **Vsevolod Meyerhold was arrested June...20th? I can't really remember, but anyway, the scenario portrayed in this chapter actually happened. Shostakovich did see Meyerhold the night before he was taken away, and they were planning to collaborate again. Both of the sources I'm using say this, except one says that Meyerhold did have tea with Shostakovich and the other one says he didn't. I thought it'd be more dramatic to use the second one so I could have Ivan talk to him once more.**

 **His wife was in fact murdered about a month later by some robbers. Their maid was knocked unconscious but I'm not sure if she was killed as well.**

 **What Shostakovich says is actually part of one of his quotes.**

 _ **"The best way to hold on to something is to pay no attention to it. The things you love too much perish. You have to treat everything with irony, especially the things you hold dear. There's more of a chance then that they'll survive,"**_

 **The sixth symphony was received even better than the fifth. It's first performance they played the last movement again as an encore. It won a Stalin award of some sort, which gave Shostakovich even more breathing space.**

 **Thanks for reading :)**


	10. A Shocking Pact and a Relaxing Vacation

**idrinkwaterjuicesoda: Thank you! They meet again in this chapter :) Hope you enjoy!**

 **Guest: Thank you so much! I'm glad you like them lol I can get a bit carried away when it comes to history stuff.**

 **cristy157: Sadly that won't be happening for another few chapters :( But it is coming up shortly!**

 **Thank you all for your awesome reviews! They really keep me going!**

 **Just a warning, there is swearing in this chapter, and probably throughout the whole story from now on. (And i mean more swearing than the Russian swears I've been using)**

* * *

 **A Shocking Pact and a Relaxing Vacation**

 **1939**

 **Moscow, Russia**

Ivan stood tall beside Vyacheslav Molotov with a scowl on his face at the military base in Moscow. Beside Molotov stood Stalin, who looked agitated. He couldn't believe they were actually going through with this. A non-aggression pact with the Nazis? It was a stupid idea. Ivan knew that they were being played, he could feel it. Besides, he didn't want to associate himself with a fascist _мудак_ like Adolf Hitler.

"They're late," Molotov muttered, an almost snarl leaving his throat.

"Give them time," Stalin shot back, "It has only been a few minutes,"

"This doesn't feel right," Ivan muttered, his eyes darting between the two men.

Stalin glared at him, his face twisting into a snarl. "This will finally make you stronger," he growled, "they are a powerful force and can help us as we prepare our troops,"

 _You mean the ones you already exiled or killed?_

Ivan gritted his teeth as a man in a Nazi uniform entered the room. He looked cold and miserable, almost as cold and miserable as a member of the Communist Party. Ivan narrowed his eyes at the man but refrained from speaking.

They went over the terms of the pact, which Ivan had no knowledge of. Then, they spoke quietly about a secret part of the pact. When Ivan heard it, he tensed and stared at Stalin, waiting for an explanation.

None came.

Finally, they were finished. The pact was signed, and Ribbentrop left after they took pictures of him and Stalin shaking hands.

A few moments after the Nazi officer left, Ivan approached Stalin, his anger drowning out his fear of the leader.

"I did not agree to this," He hissed, his gloved hands balled up into fists. "The Baltics are...my _friends_. We can't let those fascist pigs invade them. And we can't occupy them either! They deserve their independence!"

Stalin opened his mouth to speak, but Ivan bravely cut him off.

"Another thing! You have made a grave mistake associating yourself with Ludwig Beilschmidt and Adolf Hitler! They will double cross us so quickly that we won't even have time to-" Ivan was suddenly stopped by a fist to his face by Stalin.

"You do not get to make the decisions here. _I do_!" The Generalissimo yelled.

Ivan tried to ignore the pain that his face was in. He spat out some blood on the floor next to him. He could tell that it was going to take longer than usual for the wound to heal.

"I knew I had the weakest country," Stalin growled as he noticed Ivan wince, "This is why I have to make reckless alliances, because you can't do anything on your own!"

With that, Stalin and Molotov left.

Ivan glared at their backs and stormed off, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets and shaking the confrontation off.

* * *

It wasn't long before Ivan could feel what the Nazis were doing. Every time he closed his eyes he could see people being herded onto trains like cattle, people being shot, and the oncoming storm of Nazi officers.

After a few months, near the end of November, Ivan decided to go back to Leningrad. He thought his favourite city would distract him. Instead, it only made him feel worse. Stalin was still purging the city. It made him feel just as stressed and anxious as his people of Leningrad felt.

It was then, walking down the cold streets, that he realised something horrifying.

Stalin and Hitler weren't all that different after all. Ivan was no different than Ludwig, the personification of Germany. The leaders were both killing their own people. The countries were both standing by as all of it happened.

Ivan growled and decided to head towards the train station. He was going to the other side of his country. Far away from Leningrad and Moscow. Far away from the Germans and their pact.

The next thing Ivan knew however, he was on the ground, squinting up at the sky in confusion.

" _Прости_!" a familiar voice exclaimed, holding his hand out to help him up.

Ivan blinked, feeling a little dazed, but he took the hand anyway. When he stood, his eyes widened in recognition.

"Ivan? It's been so long!" Dmitri exclaimed, a small smile on his face.

Ivan, still rather dazed, started laughing, finding himself incredibly relieved. Dmitri gave him a confused look before his mouth spread into a smile. He started chuckling, the kind of nervous chuckle you make when you don't know what's going on.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," Ivan said sincerely, grasping his shoulder.

"Me too, Vanya," Dmitri replied, an awkward smile on his face.

"I...I have much to tell you," Ivan rambled as he started walking beside the composer. "I mean...well...if I'm not intruding…"

" _Нет, нет,_ Vanya you are always welcome," Dmitri reassured him with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Ivan felt his face heat up. He looked away and down at the ground. He had forgotten how kind the composer was. He was glad that Stalin's purge hadn't gotten to him too.

"Are you okay? You don't look so well,"

Ivan sheepishly looked back at him. "I will be fine," he said. It was only a small lie, but Dmitri was clever. He saw right through it.

"Why don't we stop at your house. Then you can tell me what is bothering you," Dmitri murmured.

When they got there, Ivan pushed open the door and held it for Dmitri, who merely nodded his head in thanks. They went into the sitting room, which hadn't changed much in the months they had been apart.

The only noticeable difference was the large bookcase in the corner that had the manuscript for the Fifth Symphony proudly on display for everyone to see. Ivan followed Dmitri's gaze towards it and smiled when he noticed the composer's aura of pride upon viewing it.

"I was going to the train station for the other side of Russia when you stopped me," Ivan finally said after they had sat down. He fiddled with his scarf, a habit he still hadn't shaken.

"You were posted over there?"

" _Нет._ I wanted to leave. Leave Leningrad and Moscow behind for good," Ivan looked down, shame creeping across his face as he told Dmitri what had happened. He told him about the non-aggression pact, about his fears of the Nazi party, what Stalin had said, and finally, his fears about how alike he and Germany were.

"We aren't so different," Ivan said, laughing without humour. "We aren't so different at all,"

Dmitri winced at the words, and Ivan knew why. He was probably feeling guilty for thinking the same thing. Ivan didn't blame him. He had murdered his friends. Maybe not with his own hands, but he as a country in general.

Dmitri looked like he was going to say something. Ivan prepared for the worst, shrinking into his scarf.

"You are not the monster, Ivan. You are a victim. It's the men who have power over you who murder, lie, and steal from others,"

Ivan's eyes widened in shock. He wasn't expecting the composer to be so understanding.

"I know you very well, Vanya. You are kind, gentle, and the fact that you are afraid of being such a monster proves that you aren't one. You are strong, brave. You shouldn't compare yourself to Germany. He is following the _Führer_ blindly. He is craving the power. You are not like that,"

Ivan stared at Dmitri, noting the determination on his face, the softness in his eyes, and the sadness that seemed to surround him. He sniffled, a large lump forming in his throat. He wasn't used to such kindness, and it made him feel both extremely happy and extremely sad.

" _Спасибо_ ," he managed to say, coughing slightly to hide the emotion in his voice.

Dmitri merely smiled in understanding as he lit a cigarette and took a few puffs. Ivan relaxed into his seat, staring at the swirling patterns the smoke made.

Ivan hadn't realised just how much he had missed the composer until now. He found it strange, and then, he simply let it go.

Because for now, he was home, and he couldn't be more at ease.

* * *

To Ivan, a years pass almost as fast as days. This time though, it felt like seconds.

It was now spring. 1940.

Dmitri, Ivan, and the composer's friend, Alisa Shebalina, were sitting at the table in Dmitri's _да́ча_ , eating some of the juniper berries they had just picked in the park. They were a little drunk, having fun, making jokes, and playing cards.

Dmitri stared the bag of berries down like it was going to run away, only taking one at a time in short intervals. Alisa and Ivan glanced at each other, fighting with their eyes for the next handful. After a while he took the bag from them and poured some berries into the once vodka filled cup he had beside him. They eyed him with curiosity as he poured vodka over the berries.

"You're going to burn your throat," Ivan commented, a small, amused smile on his face. He threw down a card and stared at the other ones in his hand. The suits and numbers all seemed to blend together, and the longer he stared at them, the harder it was for him to tell them all apart.

He looked up as Dmitri smirked. " _Нет,_ it will be fine, you'll see,"

Ivan and Alisa glanced at each other, amusement on their faces.

They waited about half an hour. Then, Dmitri sniffed it and took a sip before anyone could stop him. Instantly, his eyes widened and his hand went up to his throat. He coughed, handing the glass over to Alisa.

She sniffed it in disgust. "What the hell…?" She murmured, holding it as far away from her face as possible.

Dmitri coughed once more. "Try it and you'll see,"

She shook her head and gave it back to him.

"Nevermind," he said, a mischievous smile on his face, "we will simply invite Nina's painter friends for a drink. That'll teach them for being so rude,"

Ivan rolled his eyes and grabbed the cup, not even hesitating before gulping the whole thing down. It burned, but not as much as it would for a human drinking regular vodka.

They were silent until Ivan grinned at them. Dmitri burst into almost hysterical laughter, and Alisa could do nothing but stare in amazement.

They continued to drink and eat berries, too drunk to even think about cards. By the time Nina and Alisa's husband Vissarion came back from their walk, they were so drunk that they could barely even say hello.

* * *

A week passed before they left on a train for Leningrad. Alisa and her husband rode in second class and were heading to Moscow. Ivan, Nina, and Dmitri were in first class, but Ivan was a compartment across from the composer and his wife. As soon as they started moving, the nation laid down across the seats and stared up at the ceiling. He hated being left alone with his thoughts, but he didn't want to intrude on Dmitri and Nina. They probably wanted time for themselves.

Although that didn't seem to be the case.

Ivan heard footsteps leave Nina and Dmitri's compartment and head towards second class. It was silent for a few minutes, then, he heard three sets of footsteps entering the compartment. Ivan closed his eyes. There were the Shebalins and Dmitri, entering the compartment next to him.

Ivan opened his eyes as the door to his compartment slid open. Standing over him was Dmitri, that amused smirk on his face. "Come join us, Vanya," he said, walking over and forcing him to sit up. "You can sleep later,"

"I'm old, Shostakovich," Ivan joked, following Dmitri into the aisle. "I need my rest,"

Dmitri snorted in amusement and opened the door to his compartment. Alisa and her husband sat in the seats on one side and Dmitri took a seat between Nina and the window on the other side. Ivan awkwardly stood by the door until Nina rolled her eyes and grabbed his wrist, pulling him to sit next to her. His eyes widened in surprise but he sat nonetheless. He could feel Dmitri's eyes on them, and he caught a glimpse of the fond expression on his face.

Ivan's mind wandered as the couples talked. He found himself closing his eyes and wandering off to Leningrad. He was saddened to find that his people were still miserable there. He wandered to the outskirts of Russia, to Ukraine, and finally, his side of Poland. The Nazi soldiers there were conferencing about something, but before Ivan could look into it, he was back in the train compartment, his violet eyes snapping open when the door flew open.

" _Привет_ everyone!" The man standing there exclaimed, taking a seat beside Alisa Shebalina. He was holding a large box that he placed on his lap. Ivan tilted his head as he opened the box, then leaned forward in surprise when he saw chocolates inside.

"One for everybody," he said, a grin on his face. "Two for Mitya," he added quickly, winking at Dmitri.

Dmitri rolled his eyes, a small smirk on his face. "It's nice to see you Poliakin," he said, taking his chocolates. "I didn't know you were on the train,"

" _Да_ , headed back to Leningrad to prepare for the next semester," Poliakin said, handing Ivan the box of chocolates.

The nation blinked at them in surprise before Poliakin picked one for him. "These are the best ones," he murmured, gently placing it in Ivan's hand.

Ivan stared at it curiously before tentatively putting it in his mouth. The chocolate was filled with caramel. It tasted so good that he leaned back and closed his eyes in bliss.

"How long has it been since you've had chocolate?" Dmitri asked, an almost concerned and shocked look on his face.

"Since I was little," Ivan replied honestly. "Katyusha stole some for me from a soldier who had just been abroad,"

"Katerina sounds like a brave lady," Poliakin remarked, shoving a chocolate into his mouth. "I would like to meet her,"

"She is in Ukraine," Ivan grumbled, ending their conversation on the topic.

The boxed room fell into an awkward silence. Ivan stared down at his boots and randomly decided that he needed to have them washed at some point. Finally, Dmitri pulled out a deck of cards and put them on the small table attached to the wall of the compartment. He challenged Poliakin to a game. The violin professor eagerly agreed and swapped places with Vissarion. Ivan watched curiously as they stared each other down and shuffled the cards.

It seemed that the more they played, the faster Dmitri won. Poliakin was sweating terribly. He was horribly upset by the 9-0 winning streak Dmitri had. After the tenth game, Alisa spoke up.

"Quit torturing him," she laughed, "stop playing!"

Dmitri raised an eyebrow at her.

"Mitya, _look_ ," Ivan pitched in, trying to be the voice of reason. He pointed to Poliakin's chest. "You're crushing the poor man's dreams. His heart is hurting!"

Dmitri chuckled and patted Poliakin on the shoulder, who sighed and hung his head. "I will never defeat you, Shostakovich," he grumbled, "you're just too fucking good,"

They snickered at Dmitri's proud face, and teased Poliakin for being a horrible player.

Not long after, they went back to their own compartments. Everything was good. Everyone was happy.

They all fell asleep feeling at ease.

* * *

Ivan woke the next morning gasping for breath with the feeling that something was very wrong. He loosened his scarf so it wasn't so tight around his neck, but the feeling was still there. It still clogged his throat like there was something stuck in there.

Ivan fixed his hair a little and stood, frowning when he realised the train wasn't moving. He got dressed and threw open the window to look outside, sighing in relief when he saw it was just the stop in Moscow. He was about to sit back down when he heard a commotion outside.

Looking back out the window, Ivan's heart skipped a beat in fear. Being taken away by two authorities was a familiar looking frame with dark hair. The man looked back at the train, and just as Ivan had thought, it was Dmitri. His eyes were wide with fear, panic, sadness, and something else that made Ivan's stomach churn.

Acceptance.

" _Нет,_ нет, you are not taking him!" Ivan growled, throwing open the door to his compartment and rushing outside. He was glad he had decided to wear his uniform today. As soon as people saw the badge of a Marshal, they scurried out of the way.

Despite the fact that he had a clear path to Dmitri, Ivan still wasn't quick enough. They hauled him into a van and drove off, leaving him cursing in the middle of the entrance to the Moscow metro.

* * *

 **Okkaayyy sooooo**

 **The Ribbentrop-Molotov pact was this non-aggression pact between the Nazis and the Soviet Union. Basically it just said that they wouldn't attack each other and that their trading would be increased or whatever. The secret part of the pact though was that the nations wouldn't interfere if they just so happened to occupy...say, the Baltic states, or Ukraine, or Poland. So they ended up splitting Poland for like two years until Hitler got tired of them and was just like "screw this let's take over the Soviet Union!" (Operation Barbarossa).**

 **I wanted Dmitri and Ivan's reunion to be kinda like the Intro :)**

 **I don't think Germany was power drunk or whatever. I like to think that he hated doing what Hitler told him to do, but I think he thought it was best for his country (because at the time they were in like seerriousss debt and basically people were super miserable and dying and stuff. Hitler was changing this so I guess he just went with it. Either that or he was brainwashed).**

 **I just love putting Ivan through such shitty stuff don't I. #SaveIvanBraginsky2k16**

 **Apparently Shostakovich was like top notch at card games and won pretty much every time he played.**

 **Also, I'm not going to explain the ending to this chapter. It'll all be explained next time...**

 **I hope you enjoyed this kinda filler-ish chapter!**


	11. A Bad Omen

**idrinkwaterjuicesoda:Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy :D**

* * *

 **A Bad Omen**

 **1940**

 **Moscow, Russia**

" _Ёб твою мать_!" Ivan yelled after the van, balling his fists in rage. The people around him suddenly forgot what they were doing and wandered away. An angry Marshal usually meant someone was going to be punished for something.

"Calm down, Ivan, calm down," Nina suddenly appeared in front of him, her worried eyes finding his. "They're taking him to ask some questions about Poliakin,"

Ivan took a deep breath. "What happened to Poliakin?" He asked, his anger under control.

"He died,"

"W-what?"

"He's dead, Vanya. Dima was the last one to see him," Nina explained further, "that's why they took him away,"

Ivan hugged her as tears started escaping her eyes. " _Нет, нет_ , please don't cry," he held her out at arm's length and wiped away a stray tear. "I will get him back, don't worry,"

"I'll go too,"

Ivan turned to find Alisa standing behind him, looking determined. He nodded his head.

"Me too. He's my husband, I should help," Nina said, standing taller with newfound determination.

" _Боже мой!"_ Alisa's husband Vissarion exclaimed. "You're going to take the women with you? What if they get hurt!"

Alisa chucked her carry on bag at him. "Be a dear and take our bags back to the apartment. We'll be back in a few hours," she said, a bite in her words. "Oh, and make sure you grab their luggage. They're going to be staying at ours tonight,"

Ivan raised his eyebrows in surprise as Vissarion grumbled to himself and stalked off. Ivan gently put his hands on their backs, guiding them towards the road. "I have a car parked not too far from here. I keep it around the station in case of...er...emergencies," Ivan murmured to them.

"Good thinking," Alisa said, squinting up at him.

Nina nodded her head in agreement. "I suppose even a Marshal has to stay on his toes," she added.

Ivan shrugged, leading the way down the sidewalk and towards the old, sketchy building that he kept his car in. They slowed to a stop in front of it. Ivan took out his keys and unlocked the door to the building. Then, he pulled the garage door open with some rope. His black car was in mint condition without a scratch on it.

Nina got into the passenger's seat, and Alisa sat in the back. Ivan took the driver's seat and started the car, wasting no time in exiting the garage and driving down the road.

"Where did you even get this?" Alisa asked, running her hand over the leather seats in the back.

"Stole it from the NKVD," Ivan replied, smirking.

Alisa whistled lowly and looked out the window, "A Marshal and a criminal," she teased.

"How are we going to convince them to let him go?" Nina suddenly cut in, "and how do you even know where he is?"

"They took him to the interrogation building not far from here. It's like the Big House in Leningrad. Hopefully he is only a floor below the ground floor. If he's any deeper….I…" Ivan sighed, trailing off. He couldn't speak about the horrors he had seen on the bottom floors of the building.

"Okay, so it should be easy to get him out if he's on that floor then?"

" _Да_ , you and Alisa will go up to the person at the desk and say that you have evidence that proves Mitya is innocent," Ivan paused as he turned a corner. "They will tell you to wait. You need to wait for at least an hour for this to look real. I will walk in after an hour and demand to interrogate him myself. They will take me to where he's being held, then I'll act like I'm interrogating him, come to the conclusion that he's innocent, and then we all walk out with Dmitri by our side,"

The women fell silent, contemplating the plan.

"Is that a good plan?" Ivan asked, nervousness on the edges of his voice.

They slowly nodded their heads. "It isn't as fast as I'd like it to be," Nina admitted, "but it'll work,"

" _Да_ , it'll work," Alisa echoed.

Ivan nodded his head, suddenly pulling over. "The building is a three minute walk from here. It's white. If you walk close to it and feel like you're going to throw up, you know you have the right building," Ivan smiled at his own joke as they left the car, leaving him alone to watch the clock.

He ended up closing his eyes and watching the women instead, in case something went wrong.

* * *

They walked down the street, looking around for the building. Finally, Alisa stopped and held her hand out. "I think this is the one," she said.

It was. The building was a white-grey colour. It looked bland, it looked like an asylum.

Nina and Alisa both took a deep breath and walked towards the building. They walked inside and went straight to the man behind the desk.

"Excuse me, sir," Nina started, "we have evidence that Shostakovich is innocent,"

The man raised an eyebrow at them, chuckling to himself. "Really?" He asked, "well, he's in interrogation right now, so you'll have to wait a while until we get our statement from him,"

"How long is it going to take?" Alisa asked, defiance in her voice.

The man smirked and looked up at the clock. "Two or three hours," he said, grinning at them.

Nina grumbled and walked over to the chairs by the window. Alisa followed her and sat down in front of her. "Now we just have to wait," she murmured.

Nina nodded her head. She was too worried to say anything.

* * *

Ivan sighed and opened his eyes, glancing at the clock again. He had another fifty minutes to go, so he decided to try to see where Dmitri was being kept.

Luckily it was on the floor that was the easiest to get to. He was in the room at the end of the hallway. There was one NKVD officer pacing the hall, and there was one inside of Dmitri's room.

Ivan didn't look to see what they were talking about. He didn't want to know anything about how the composer was being treated.

Ivan turned on the radio, frowning when Shostakovich's String Quartet started playing through his speakers. He recognized it as the third movement. The _Allegro Molto_. He started laughing. He found it a little ironic how free the music sounded at the moment, compared to the composer himself, who was currently facing potential death.

Ivan had half an hour left to wait, but he didn't think he could do it. He couldn't just sit there while someone he cared for was being interrogated for something they had no involvement in.

He realised that Shostakovich may be the first person he had become close to since Anastasia, Nicholas II's daughter, who was more like Ivan's daughter than the Tsar's. He shut the car off and opened the door. He wasn't about to lose the person who had unknowingly taught him how to care again.

Lighting his last cigarette, he shut the car door and pocketed the keys. He walked down the road with his head high, the ends of his scarf neatly tucked into the folds of his uniform, and his violet eyes daring someone, anyone, to cross his path.

He pushed open the door to the Moscow Big House and walked straight up to the desk. He paid no attention to Alisa and Nina, who were glancing at him with surprise.

The man at the desk was finishing a crossword puzzle, oblivious to the powerful Marshal that stood before him. Ivan knocked on the desk, to which the office jumped and stood when he noticed who it was.

"Comrade Braginsky! How...how nice to see you," he exclaimed, trying to sound like he wasn't afraid for his life.

Ivan eyed him with contempt, his mouth easily forming a signature Russian scowl. "I'm taking over the interrogation of D. D. Shostakovich," he said with a booming authority.

The man was shaking now, and who could blame him? Comrade Braginsky had a reputation for getting what he wanted, one way or another.

The officer looked through a clipboard on his desk. "Shostakovich?" He asked.

" _Да_ , just tell me what room number. You've wasted enough of my time already," Ivan growled, piercing through the officer with his menacing eyes.

The man blurted out a number, to which Ivan nodded his head and went for the stairs. He passed Nina and Alisa, who had decided to start a conversation about clothing in an attempt to seem normal.

After going down a floor and reaching the corridor, Ivan explained to the patrolling guard that he was now in charge of the Shostakovich interrogation. He was then escorted to the room at the end of the hall, and the man inside the room came out to take the other officer's place.

Ivan opened the door and shut it behind him, frowning at the bent over figure of Shostakovich.

"Comrade Shostakovich, I have a few questions to ask you regarding the death of Miron Poliakin," Ivan said loudly. He waited until he could hear the footsteps of the guards leave the premises before continuing. "Mitya, Nina and Alisa are waiting for you outside. I'm getting you out of here," he said in a softer voice.

Dmitri looked up at him, his eyes a little red around the rims and his face rather pale. "I killed him, Vanya," he suddenly said, his voice raspy.

Ivan reared back in surprise, his ryes widening. "What? Mitya, they're just making you think you did,"

" _Нет_ , I did, Ivan. I killed him. I must have!"

It was heartbreaking how inconsolable he seemed, but Ivan wasn't giving up. He grabbed Dmitri by the shoulders and shook him a little. "Mitya, did you go into the compartment in the middle of the night and strangle the life out of Poliakin? Your friend and colleague?"

There was no answer.

" _Нет_! You didn't!" Ivan exclaimed. "Trust me, if you had, I would've known. You didn't kill him. Х _орошо?_ "

"... _хорошо_ …"

Ivan could tell that they weren't really seeing eye to eye. but they didn't exactly have the time to argue about it. "Come on," he said quietly, "let's get you out of here,"

Dmitri stood almost as if he was tied to strings like a marionette, and followed him like a lost dog follows someone holding food down the street. They walked side by side down the dark hallway, only to be stopped by the guard who was interrogating Dmitri earlier.

"Comrade Braginsky. Where are you taking Shostakovich, hm?" he asked, grabbing on to the lapels of Ivan's jacket.

Ivan clenched his jaw, noticing how Dmitri's eyes flitted nervously between them. "Nina and Alisa are upstairs. Go on," Ivan murmured to him.

Dmitri nodded his head and trudged towards the stairs. When he was a reasonable distance away, Ivan turned towards the officer. "I found Shostakovich innocent. He's Soviet Russia's greatest composer. Not some criminal gambler," Ivan said.

The officer scoffed. "I've heard many stories about how ruthless you are. You normally jump on the chance to send someone to the gulag. Why is he an exception?" The officer smirked smugly, like a child who watched someone get in trouble for something he did. The officer leaned in close to Ivan. "Is there a chance that you've gotten a little soft?"

Ivan narrowed his eyes, instantly having him pinned against the wall with one hand. He held the man by his neck, high off the ground so that his feet were dangling in the air. His eyes were wide with fear and panic. He clawed at Ivan's gloved hands with the anxiety of a scared deer.

"I wouldn't doubt those stories if I were you," Ivan growled in the man's ear, taking out his metal pipe and poking him in the stomach. The man choked and whimpered until finally, Ivan stepped away and dropped him. He came crashing to the ground, gasping for breath.

"How's that for soft, _сука_?" Ivan chuckled. He grinned at the officer and turned away, his smile falling when he saw Shostakovich still standing there, watching him with apprehension.

Ivan kept his head down and moved passed him, going up the stairs and trying to keep up his terrifying front. It was hard, considering the thoughts that were running through his head at the moment. Thoughts about what Dmitri might be thinking, thoughts about how cruel he is, about how sometimes he just can't control himself.

Dmitri followed him into the lobby, where Nina immediately stood from her seat and ran over to him. They hugged, Dmitri resting his head on her shoulder, a small smile on his face. The officer behind the desk kept his head down as Ivan walked by and held the door open for Alisa, Nina, and Dmitri.

When the car was in sight, Ivan let out a sigh of relief. He shook off his menacing "Marshal" persona and opened the car doors for everyone to get in. Dmitri sat in the back with Nina while Alisa took the passenger's seat.

Ivan glanced at them through the rearview mirror. They spoke quietly, their hands clasped together tightly, like it was the last time they would be able to do so.

Ivan started up the car and sped away.

Nobody talked for the rest of the ride, save for Alisa, who gave Ivan the directions to her apartment.

* * *

As soon as they entered the Shebalin apartment, Vissarion took Dmitri into an almost spine-crushing hug, patting his back and muttering about how great it was to see him. Ivan purposely left the room in search for his luggage. He wanted to give the friends their space. After all, Vissarion probably thought Dmitri was dead. Or worse, exiled to Siberia.

When he finally found his luggage, which consisted of a small suitcase and another smaller bag, he was about to exit the room when he discovered that Nina was standing in front of him. He averted her questioning eyes and stood until she spoke.

"Dima is anxious," she murmured, "more than usual. I need to go back home for the children...could he...stay with you for a day or so?"

Ivan could do nothing but stare at her, shock making him mute.

"I know him. It will kill him if he goes back on that train," Nina sighed, "He needs something to distract him. Otherwise he'll just torture himself about this,"

Ivan remained silent.

"Vanya…" She nearly growled in frustration. She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice, like it would somehow get him to talk. "I know you have an apartment here in Moscow,"

It worked. It always did when it came to Nina Shostakovich née Varzar.

"Nita, I don't know if he trusts me enough anymore," he near whispered. "Not after today,"

"I would think especially after today,"

" _Нет_ , you don't understand. I nearly killed someone in front of him!"

"And you don't think he saw any of that from Tukhachevsky? He spent years with that man, nearly always by his side. Tukhachevsky was a Marshal like you. He would have done things too,"

"But Nita-"

" _Нет_ , don't 'but Nita' me," Nina said fiercly. Ivan shut his mouth the minute he saw the shining determination in her golden eyes. "You are the only person he trusts almost as much as Glikman," she continued.

"Glikman?" He echoed, disbelief in his tone.

" _Да_ , you heard me," Nina confirmed. "Isaak Glikman is the only person he trusts more than you. Glikman, you, then me,"

Ivan was speechless in front of her again.

"So please, distract him. Keep an eye on him. Tragedy does strange things to Dima,"

With that, she grabbed her bags, left her husband's, and walked away.

* * *

Dmitri hadn't argued when Ivan said that he would be staying in the nation's Moscow apartment. He didn't argue when he was led inside the apartment. Curiously, the only thing he argued about was the sleeping arrangements.

"You are not sleeping on the sofa," he grumbled, "I will sleep on the sofa. I get up a lot in the night,"

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Mitya, you are my guest. Besides, I hardly ever sleep. I'm taking the damn sofa,"

"Ivan, you are truly the greatest friend, but you are really starting to piss me off,"

"You wouldn't be so pissed off if you would've just agreed with me in the first place,"

" _Хуй тебе!"_

" _Нет, хуй тебе!"_

They stared at each other, their frustration and nerves and stress from the day suddenly gone. They laughed. They laughed at each other, they laughed at themselves. It was strange. Their friend was dead, they almost died themselves, and they were laughing.

After they calmed down, they both sat at the edge of Ivan's bed. They were silent, because now everything that they had wanted to say was gone. All that they needed to say to each other they didn't need to say.

Surprisingly, and uncharacteristically, it was Dmitri who broke the silence.

"What do you think happened to him? What killed him? Do you know?"

Ivan looked down at his hands. He didn't have an answer for the young composer. He didn't have an answer.

"Power killed him, Mitya," he decided to say. "Whether it was Stalin. The Party." He paused. "God,"

Dmitri sighed and flopped back onto the bed so that the upper half of his body was on the bed and the lower half dangled off of it.

It was silent for a moment. Then, Dmitri broke it for a second time.

"I envy him." He murmured.

" _Да,"_ Ivan agreed, flopping back onto the bed as well. "I do too,"

More silence followed, but this time, it wasn't broken.

Both men could feel what was happening to the world around them.

They both knew that Poliakin's death was a bad omen. Hell on Earth was just beginning.

* * *

Ivan had to wake him that night.

"They took Galya and Max! They...they shot Nita!"

" _Нет, нет_ , Mitya, they are safe in Leningrad,"

"Are you positive? Vanya you have to be sure!"

" _Да_ , I am sure. I'm positive. Go back to sleep, Mitya,"

* * *

He now knew what Nina had meant about Dmitri and tragedy. It tormented him. It followed him everywhere. Night and day. Composing and not composing. It was there, and for the first few days, it drove him mad.

Ivan did all he could. He took the composer to some football matches. To the concert hall. To the art gallery. Distraction worked during the day, but at night, he could do nothing but keep his eyes open, wake Dmitri when he had to, and repeat.

* * *

1941 was going to be up there on the list of worst years in his lifetime. Ivan could tell.

It wasn't about _Россия_ the personification. It was about _Россия_ the country.

Pardon his mistake.

 _Советская Россия._

If he were a normal person, he would have been deemed an Enemy of the People for that mistake.

He was becoming irritable, and everyone had noticed. Dmitri especially. The composer always tried to do what he could to make his day a little brighter. Sometimes it worked.

On June 21st 1941, it did not.

They were sitting at the table in Dmitri's apartment, Ivan smoking his pack of cigarettes almost furiously. Yes, he was on his last one in the pack. He had just gotten it that morning too.

Dmitri was going to open his mouth to suggest something. Ivan narrowed his eyes.

 _Why don't we get some vodka_?

Until the composer remembered the last time they had gotten drunk together, a month ago, when Ivan had turned into a weeping mess and nearly shot himself.

"You're doing that thing," Dmitri finally said, amusement on his face.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you read my mind. It's creepy,"

"A lot of things are creepy,"

Dmitri decided to ignore the remark and simply raised his eyebrows. "You're stressed," he commented.

Ivan sighed, putting out his cigarette and taking off his gloves. He rubbed his face with his pale hands. "I'm...I'm sorry, Mitya," he murmured.

"I understand,"

Dmitri had a way of reassuring you without even trying. Those two words lifted a weight off of Ivan, even though the composer didn't understand at all.

"There are reports from nearly every member of the KGB that the Nazis are going to strike us tomorrow," Ivan said. "Guess what our Great Leader is doing about it?"

"What?"

"Executing the spies, of course!" Ivan laughed humourlessly. "He isn't even preparing for potential war against the Nazis. Hitler and Germany are insane, Mitya. They have easily invaded most of Europe. They're fighting England as we speak. How could Stalin overlook this? How can he trust this monster!"

"Calm down, Vanya," Dmitri said softly, "Stalin is foolish, but he must have some plan in place just in case,"

"He doesn't. We're screwed, Mitya," Ivan reached for another cigarette, throwing the pack across the room when he remembered that it was empty.

Dmitri gave him a disapproving look and stood. He wandered over to the empty pack and picked it up. He looked at it with distaste.

"Only the NKVD smoke this kind. You should switch to Kazbek," he commented lightly.

"Never mind what I smoke," Ivan growled, feeling the beginnings of a headache. He rubbed his temples, his cold hands numbing the discomfort for a moment.

Dmitri sighed and threw the pack into the garbage, as well as all of the ash and buds in the tray. He then sat back down across from him and grabbed his wrist.

"Vanya, I know you're worried. I know you're stressed about a possible invasion. I understand," he murmured, "but you're strong. The country is strong, the men are strong. If it does happen, they won't get very far,"

"We'll see," Ivan muttered ominously.

Dmitri sighed and offered him a cigarette. He took it gratefully and lit it, puffing thoughtfully.

The composer was right. He should switch to Kazbek.

* * *

It was three in the morning. Ivan was pacing back and forth, waiting for something to happen. It was inevitable. He could feel that something horrible was going to happen.

It started with a sharp pain in his head that moved down to his eyes. Then, his body felt warm, like he had just gotten a really bad sunburn. It accelerated from there, making him feel like he was on fire.

Then it ended. And a different pain began,

The pain of his people dying.

The Nazis had bombed his people in Poland.

Their War was just beginning.

* * *

 **Miron Poliakin did in fact die on that train the night he had played cards with Shostakovich. The NKVD interrogated Dmitri, accusing him of murdering the violinist after an altercation while gambling. It probably lasted more than an hour, until Alisa Shebalina persuaded them to let him go. Nobody really knows the cause of death, but apparently Shostakovich was so distraught he had to stay there while Nina went back to Leningrad to look after the kids (who I'm sure they had a babysitter or something for). This really happened in 1941, but it's fanfiction so...**

 **Poor Ivan. I'm going to say this every chapter from now on. Just, poor Ivan :/**

 **The Nazis struck Soviet Occupied Poland at 3:15 AM on June 22nd, 1941. They bombed the major cities and took over. Since all of the experienced veterans were already purged by Stalin, nobody knew what to do. So they sent a telegram to Moscow but didn't get a response. That afternoon it was broadcast that the Soviets were at war with the Nazis.**

 **Thanks again for reading! :)**


	12. Barbarossa

**idrinkwaterjuicesoda: Thanks again for your encouragement! I really love hearing what you think. It keeps me motivated :D Also, I'm really glad you like the history :) I originally wasn't going to put any historical notes in, but then I got all nerdy and started explaining things lmao.** **I hope you check out some of Shostakovich's music, even if it might not be your style :)**

* * *

 **Barbarossa**

 **1941**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

It was four in the morning.

Ivan had spent the last hour packing his bags, shoving every valuable thing he could into them. If they could see him, people would think him paranoid. No, he wasn't paranoid. He was smart. He could calculate the Nazis next targets.

Ukraine, Belarus, Leningrad, Moscow.

He had to contact his sisters. He had to let them know what was going on.

But Ukraine, Katyusha, she was ill. She wouldn't be up at this time of day.

And Belarus, Natalya, she was insane. She would think that her brother was trying to confess his love for her.

So Ivan went to the next people on the list of those he cared about. The Shostakovich family.

That's how he found himself kneeling in front of the lock on their door, picking it open with one of Katyusha's old hairpins. When he finally got it open, he dragged his three army bags and violin case inside with him. He carefully and quietly shut the door, trying to be as silent as possible. He didn't want to wake the whole family, he just wanted to talk to Dmitri and Nina, persuade them to take the children and evacuate Leningrad with him, and that was that.

But unfortunately, things didn't go as smoothly as he had hoped.

As another sharp pain made its way from his head down to his eyes, he stumbled and ran into a table, knocking something over. He tried to stay quiet to see if anyone woke up from the noise when he suddenly ran into a wall. He was a mess. A blind, painful mess.

When his eyes decided to work again, he turned the corner towards the bedroom, but was met with a baseball bat to the head.

Dmitri was standing there, his glasses crooked and his face morphing from anger to regret and near terror as Ivan's eyes rolled into the back of his head.

The last thing he was aware of before blacking out was Dmitri swearing and rushing towards him.

* * *

" _Nita, don't give me that look, please,"_

" _You almost killed him, Dima! How am I supposed to look?"_

" _I thought he was going to kill us!"_

" _This is Vanya we're talking about!"_

" _I didn't know it was him!"_

" _Still, you didn't have to bash his head in!"_

The first thing Ivan was aware of were two quiet voices arguing with each other. Then, the massive pain his head was in. Where the hell was he? He recognized Dmitri and Nina's voices. Was he at their apartment? Did he get so drunk he passed out? That couldn't be it. He never got hangovers this bad.

"Do you think we should take him to see a doctor?" Dmitri was whispering, but to Ivan it felt like he was yelling in his ear. Ivan caught the heavy smell of Kazbek when the composer spoke. He must have been chain smoking again to cope with his anxiety.

"Does Vanya seem like the type to go to the doctor's?" Nina grumbled.

If Ivan could function properly, he would've agreed with her. But right now, it seemed that he could only listen to what was going on around him.

"I...don't know…?"

"Dima, I love you, but sometimes you're such an idiot!"

There was silence, then the sound of a match being lit, then a stronger smell of Kazbek.

"For Christ's sake, Dima, if you smoke one more cigarette I'll break them all!"

"Well, I'm sure Vanya happens to like it. I'm smoking on his behalf too."

Ivan decided to block them out and test how well he could function. He didn't remember why he couldn't seem to act normally, but he figured he should try to get himself together anyway.

Could he move his hand?

Barely.

Could he open his eyes?

 _Нет._

Could he speak?

Maybe, but he didn't exactly have the energy.

Hands were his best shot at any form of communication. The rest would come later. Hopefully.

His fingers twitched, then started moving, albeit rather slowly. He clenched and unclenched his fist, hoping to catch someone's attention.

" _Боже мой_ , Nita his hand is moving!" Ivan could feel Dmitri lean towards him. "Vanya, can you open your eyes?"

Ivan tried and failed.

"You almost had it. You can do it."

His eyes flew open, then immediately shut again.

"Turn the light off, Dima," Nina said, worry and hope in her voice.

There was the click of the lamp being turned off, and then they waited.

He nearly forgot what he was doing, but then he opened his eyes and blinked a few times.

Nina and Dmitri looked like blobs. Light and dark blobs.

"I think I gave him brain damage," Dmitri whispered.

"I'll give _you_ brain damage," Ivan said slowly, his mouth having a hard time forming words.

Nina laughed, Dmitri chuckled nervously, and Ivan's face twisted into a smile.

Until he remembered why he was there in the first place.

He sat up, his vision swimming and flickering. Dmitri said something but he didn't catch it. He was trying to form the words he wanted to say. It made his head hurt terribly. Nina and Dmitri were talking, but it all sounded like blaring noise.

He was overwhelmed. It was exhausting.

He looked over at Dmitri, and then Nina. They were becoming clearer now, and they looked upset. Why did they look upset?

He looked down at himself. He was sitting on a sofa, there was blood on his shirt. He shakily reached up at his neck. Where was his scarf?

He started looking for it. He had to find it. His sister gave him that scarf. Long before all of the wars that nearly drove them apart.

War.

He remembered what he was going to say again.

"We're at war," he blurted out, blinking in surprise when it didn't sound like a garbled mess. "With the Nazis," he added after looking around for his scarf once more.

Nina and Dmitri exchanged glances. They looked like they wanted to know more, but Ivan was so tired. He fell back onto the sofa, ignoring the pain he felt when his head collided with the cushion.

His hand was still on his neck. Oh. His scarf. Where was it?

He grabbed Dmitri's wrist and looked into his nervous eyes. "Scarf," he murmured, "please,"

Dmitri reached behind him and instantly it was in Ivan's hands. He couldn't put it around his neck, so he simply laid it on top of him.

He closed his eyes, completely oblivious to the noise around him. Completely oblivious to the Nazis advancing towards his beloved city.

He fell asleep, and didn't even dream.

* * *

" _Папочка?"_

" _Да,_ Galya?"

"Why is Vanya still sleeping?"

"He's just a little tired, _Солнышко,"_

"He's been sleeping for two days! Lazy Vanya!"

Ivan opened an eye, and then the other one. He blinked, and found that Galina was standing over him. She frowned and covered his eyes.

" _Прости_ , Vanya! Go back to sleep,"

Ivan smiled and gently lifted her hands off of his face. "It's too late, you already woke me up!" he teased, making a face at her.

She giggled, called him silly, and left to go pick on her brother.

Ivan sighed and looked around. He noticed Dmitri sitting on a chair across from him, frowning at a piece of paper that seemed to have hundreds of notes on it.

"Is that the Seventh?" Ivan asked.

" _Да_ ," Was his quiet reply.

Ivan sat up, groaning at the sharp pain in his head. Dmitri finished writing in a quarter note and looked up at the noise, his frown deepening at Ivan's wincing face.

"Vanya, I'm...so sorry," he apologised. "I hope you can forgive me,"

Oh that's right, Dmitri had hit him over the head with a bat. He had nearly forgotten again.

"You shouldn't apologise, Mitya," Ivan replied, facing the composer and smiling at him. "I should have known better,"

Dmitri fell silent, moving on to the next page of his stave paper. He paused before he wrote anything down.

"You were right," he finally said.

"Hm?"

"We declared war on Germany yesterday,"

Ivan swore under his breath. " Why are you still here then? Have you at least packed your things? You have to leave before they attack us!"

"Ivan. They're in Poland," Dmitri muttered, as if Ivan had gone insane.

"They're also in Finland!" Ivan hissed, "which is directly north of here! And they will attack my _сестра_ , who is south of us!"

Dmitri put down his pen and sighed. "Vanya, why are you so worried about this?"

"Because lots of people die in war, Dmitri!" He snapped, staggering to his feet. "And I don't want you or your family to be one of them!"

Dmitri lowered his head in shame. Ivan sighed and sat back down onto the sofa. He fixed his scarf, tying it tighter around his neck.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, "I just…"

" _Нет_ , I'm sorry," Dmitri replied, "but you have to know that we're not leaving Leningrad until we're forced out,"

Ivan stared at him. He wanted to yell at him in frustration. But he simply nodded his head and laid back down, sighing and thinking about how dumb he was for becoming attached to humans.

* * *

A month passed without a single word from Stalin or his military. There wasn't even anything from the other countries. Dmitri thought this was a good sign. Maybe things weren't as bad as they thought.

Ivan knew that wasn't the case.

The Nazis had broke through the lines surrounding the Leningrad Oblast. It was only a matter of time before they reached Leningrad itself.

Yet Dmitri and his family insisted on staying, and as the month progressed and moved into August, the Nazis got closer, and he finished the first movement of his Seventh Symphony.

The composer distracted himself with the Seventh, and successfully distracted Ivan with it too. The composer knew how enthusiastic Ivan was when handed new material. He knew that the nation would forget about the Germans for a moment when presented with a first look at the seventh.

"Take a look. Tell me what you think," Dmitri said a day after completing the first movement. He handed Ivan the manuscript, who then held it in front of himself like it was a holy relic.

"Are you sure?" The nation asked.

"Just look it over, please,"

Ivan sat down and eagerly scanned the pages. Although he wasn't entirely musically inclined, he could still sight read the score and hear it in his head. He only stopped a few times to ask Dmitri to play a part on the piano so he could hear it.

He was partway through the score when he noticed that there was an 18 bar theme that was repeated twice. Then three times. Then four.

Finally, Ivan put it down and looked up at Dmitri, who had an amused smirk on his face.

"It's repeated twelve times?" Ivan asked in disbelief.

"Mmm. _Да_ ,"

"...Okay, but, _twelve_?"

"It's more than that," Dmitri pushed some hair out of his face, "but _да_ , it's noticeable at least twelve times,"

Ivan simply blinked at him. "Isn't this like... _The Merry Widow_?"

Dmitri's eyes lit up with excitement and his pale face began to colour. "You recognized it?"

" _Da geh' ich zu Maxim?"_

"A theme from it, _да_ ,"

"It sounds like murder though. Not Lehar,"

"It sounds like a little demon," Dmitri smirked, "we think he's our friend, and then he gets bigger. He's annoying. He's menacing,"

Ivan thought about it for a moment before smiling. "I think I understand," he said.

Dmitri urged him to keep going. By the end, Ivan had been sent into near shock.

"What do you think?" Dmitri asked nervously.

Ivan handed him the manuscript and put his hands on the composer's shoulders. "It's perfect, Dima. It's going to sound brilliant,"

The composer smiled triumphantly. Ivan smiled back at him.

It seemed that it was only when Dmitri was composing that Ivan felt immensely proud to be the personification of _Россия._

* * *

The Nazis were just outside the city.

Men and women alike lined up at the Big House to enlist in the army. Ivan was called to supervise and make sure things didn't get out of hand. He stood in the corner of the room as people crowded around the desk to enlist. As he scanned the room, he wasn't really sure how he should feel about it all.

On one hand, he couldn't help but feel devoted to them. They were stepping up to protect him, after all he had done to them. On the other hand, he was saddened by it. All of these people were laying their lives on the line for him. Most of them wouldn't make it back home to their families.

Ivan blinked back into reality when a loud man stormed in and shoved everyone, demanding to be first in line. Ivan growled in annoyance and walked up to him, grabbing his arms and leading him back towards the door.

"Come, Comrade, we appreciate your enthusiasm, but you can't cause people harm to get what you want," Ivan muttered as they made their way through the crowd.

"Says you," the man slurred, his breath reeking of alcohol. "You party members do exactly that!"

Ivan threw him out the door in a small flare of rage. The drunk man landed on his side and groaned. He shot back up and raised his hands in the air.

"Free _мать Россия!_ " He yelled, turning around in circles. Little did he know, he was making a fool of himself in front of the real _мать Россия._

Ivan sighed and rolled his eyes, turning to enter the building again. He didn't need to take care of this drunk. He was sure that the NKVD would be more than happy to do it themselves.

As he re-entered the building, he caught the whisper of a familiar name.

"Is that Comrade Shostakovich?" They asked. "Is he enlisting too?"

Ivan felt his heart pick up. Dmitri was here? But why? Why would he enlist?

He frantically scanned the crowd until finally, he found the composer near the front of the line. Ivan narrowed his eyes at him, anger rising in his chest. He wanted to storm up there and stop him, but luckily, it was late, and they were starting to shut everything down.

An officer stood on his chair and told everyone to come back the next day.

"If there is a tomorrow," someone grumbled in annoyance.

Ivan agreed with the disgruntled person. There was no telling what could happen in under 24 hours. Especially in Dmitri's case, after Ivan got his hands on him.

The crowd flowed out of the building, Dmitri in the middle of it. Ivan waited a moment before following them. He kept his eyes on that dark hair and small frame, following him down the sidewalk, around the corner, until they finally got to his apartment.

Ivan stopped him before he could get his keys out. The composer jumped with fright and spun around, not looking relieved at all when he saw Ivan standing there, a scowl on his face and confusion mixed with anger in his eyes.

Ivan felt himself getting emotional thinking about the composer going off to fight for him. He hated the thought of Dmitri in battle. He hated the thought of him in any sort of danger at all.

"What are you thinking?" Ivan asked, his voice reduced to a whisper. "Why would you want to enlist? You have a family! Digging trenches outside the city is one thing...but _this_ **?** "

Dmitri looked surprised at the question. "I want to do whatever I can to protect this city, and you,"

Ivan growled in frustration and lowered his head. "You're willing to die for a country who has done nothing but make your life miserable?" He asked in disbelief.

" _Да_ , because you're one of my closest friends. Harm to the land or people causes you harm. I'd like to help keep you from getting hurt,"

Dmitri's explanation made his heart hurt, and his eyes started to become watery. The composer's heart was in the right place, but he just didn't understand. He didn't understand that when presented with even the idea of it, his whole being turned dark and melancholy.

"What do you think will happen to me when you don't return? You, a man worth more than Leningrad to me?" He asked, gritting his teeth when his voice broke.

"Vanya-"

" _Нет_!" Ivan snapped. He turned his back on the composer. "You go ahead. Do what you want."

Ivan hurried down the street towards his house, ignoring Dmitri calling his name.

When he finally got home, he opened a bottle of vodka and drank from it until it was gone.

* * *

Tchaikovsky took Dmitri's place as his close friend in the last few days of August. He had left his violin at Dmitri's, and he didn't want to face the composer after his outburst, so instead of playing, he listened.

He had gramophone records of his favourite pieces. He would get up in the morning, drink vodka, maybe have a snack, and then sit and listen to Tchaikovsky for the rest of the day.

This went on until the first day of September. He could feel the Nazi soldiers surrounding the city. If anyone had planned to evacuate, it was probably too late for them. He wondered whether the Shostakovich family got out or not, but he didn't bother finding out. For one, he respected them too much to spy on them, and his heart probably wouldn't handle it if he found out Dmitri and his family were still in the city.

He rummaged around his record collection and finally pulled one out with a pleased hum. On it was a rather good recording of Tchaikovsky's _Piano Trio in A Minor_. He couldn't help but smile grimly at how well it fit his mood.

He could try to be poetic and think that it all happened suddenly, but that would just be silly.

As the air raid sirens sounded frantically, Ivan merely grumbled and took his bottle of vodka downstairs. There was a window by the ceiling that he could look outside from. He knew that this was a sign that his basement wasn't deep enough for shelter, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He huddled in the corner of the room, a blanket carelessly tossed over his body. Tchaikovsky stopped playing upstairs. There were only the sirens.

Like a frightened child, he covered his ears to block out the noise. He couldn't believe this was happening. Not now. Not his Leningrad. Not his Petersburg.

He couldn't stop his tears as the bombs fell.

For the first time in nearly thirty years, his heart fell out of his chest and landed uselessly on the ground in front of him. He stared at it, until his street was suddenly engulfed in an earth shattering explosion.

He fell unconscious as his beloved house fell to the ground, and his city and people burned.

* * *

 **Whoo okay**

 **I may have overdone it in this chapter but...eh.**

 **I'm going to go on a pretty big history rant for this chapter so bear with me lol**

 **So Operation Barbarossa happened really early on 22 June (I think I already covered some of this last chapter). Anyway, Belarus was taken over that night, and Ukraine was taken over on 17 July. So if Ivan were to contact Belarus, it would've been too late for her anyway :/**

 **Short term memory loss, pain, and confusion are signs of brain damage after taking a hit to the head. I decided to play around with it with Ivan because whyyy nott? (I know I'm heartless).**

 **Shostakovich was completely dedicated to Leningrad. He wanted to do whatever he could to help during the war, and he took it very seriously. He started his Seventh Symphony, "Leningrad", (which he either started writing two months before the siege or when the siege began...my books say two different things so i just went with the month in between) and wrote it for the city/its people.**

 **The 18 bar theme they discuss is nicknamed the "invasion theme", because it depicts Hitler and the Nazi Party terrorising Leningrad. But in _Testimony:_ _The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich_ , Shostakovich and Solomon Volkov mention that it depicts Stalin/the Communist regime. I dunno. All I know is that it freaks me out sometimes when I listen to it, and I can clearly see both ideas. Maybe the theme depicts both Stalin and Hitler? Totalitarianism in general? Who knows?**

 **The tune it's based off is Franz Lehar's _I'll Go See Maxim_ from _The Merry Widow_. I'm not sure how the two are related, I haven't really listened to the themes that extensively, or studied the scores so...but everything I've read about it says that the theme from _Maxim_ is there so it seems legit.**

 **Shostakovich apparently tried to enlist for the army several times, but he always had bad health and his eyesight wasn't so good so they never accepted him. Not sure if this is true, but I thought I could use it to create some drama between country and composer.**

 **I think Ivan's really attached to Leningrad because Ivan is a huge fan of poetry/art/music/theatre, and Leningrad was like the biggest city for all that creative stuff. Not only that but it was the capital city of Russia for many years, so it would've really been his home.**

 **While I wrote this, I listened to Tchaik's Piano Trio (the one Ivan listens to in this) as well as Mahler's Piano Quartet in A minor (it's in Shutter Island so you'd probably recognise it if you've seen the movie). I highly suggest you listen to them. They're pretty intense lol**

 **Thank you!**


	13. The Beginning of the Siege

**ABC: Welcome back :D I'm thinking of just putting a list of everything I listened to either after each chapter or just at the end of this story. And History Time TM is not going anywhere lol**

 **cristy157: Thank you! I was worried about how I was going to add it all in but I'm glad I got it down good :)**

 **Thanks for your reviews!**

* * *

 **The Beginning of the Siege**

 **1941**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

Ivan knew he was awake, but he couldn't see. He knew he wasn't blind, it was just dark for some reason. He lifted his hand to see if his vision could focus on it, but he ended up swearing loudly in pain. His wrist was dislocated. It flopped uselessly when he tried to move it.

Growling in determination, Ivan used his other hand to feel around him. He came into contact with something squishy. He picked it up.

It was his heart, looking a little battered but unfortunately still intact. He winced and braced himself before shoving it back into his chest.

Instantly his mind was assaulted by screams of pain and grief, voices that cried out for their loved ones. His body also felt ten times worse. Now he not only had his own injuries, but his skin burned with his city.

His situation was...pathetic, really.

He tried to sit up so he could set his wrist, but he was pinned down by the remainder of what used to be his house. His already aching heart felt a sharp pain at the thought of all his things burning to the ground. He was attached to the things in his house in Leningrad. Nearly all of them were gifts from people he loved.

Of course he had put the ones he was most fond of in one of the bags he had packed. A small painting of Anastasia and him together, a photo they took a year before she was exiled, his Tchaikovsky sheet music, the manuscript of Shostakovich's fifth symphony.

He wondered how Shostakovich was. Was he still in Leningrad? Was his house burned to the ground too?

He knew their apartment was relatively close to a bomb shelter, and he knew that he would do anything to get there.

Dmitri would never bring his children into any sort of danger. He hated to even think about them getting hurt.

Ivan could see a little now. He tested the boards above him with his good hand. They were sturdy, but nothing he couldn't handle. This was exactly like the time he was thought to be dead and was buried alive. He was of official status so the Tsar gave him a coffin instead of throwing him into a mass grave.

They thought he was a witch when he dug himself out of his own grave. But the Tsar made sure he wasn't tried or executed. It was later written in his files to wait at least three weeks before burying him when he's presumed dead.

Ivan pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose and cautiously pushed at the debris above him. If he wasn't careful, some of the brick and wood could crush him. He found a small hole that he could fit a few fingers through. He kept moving things around until he could fit his hand through. He felt around above the pile of rubble and found that there wasn't really much destruction where he was. He took out his hand and looked through the hole he had just made.

There was less than half of a roof on his building, and a few walls. Some of the roof was collapsed, most of it was just in a pile off to the side. Ivan frantically laid back and started kicking at the hole, which helped move bricks as well as other debris. He covered his face with his arms as heavy objects fell onto him, including a large section of ivory keys from his piano.

Finally, he was able to get his shoulders through. Then he pulled himself out and sat among the hot debris, exhausted. He set his wrist with a loud swear and laid back, looking up at the sky.

He didn't want to move. He didn't even want to think. Thinking meant effort and effort meant pain.

Although nothing caused him more pain than hearing a familiar voice calling out his name.

" _Нет_ ," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. " _Нет_ , you fool...you…"

Dmitri's hands were hovering over him, hesitant, afraid of touching him and doing more damage. He didn't have to worry, Ivan mused bitterly, the damage was already done.

"Ivan?" Dmitri asked. There were complicated layers of panic and grief in his voice.

" _Нет,"_ Ivan repeated, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper. He didn't bother opening his eyes, just in case they betrayed him and started showing how deeply hurt he was.

"What do you mean?"

"You aren't here, you can't be," Ivan opened his eyes. Just as he was afraid of, they betrayed him when they locked on to Dmitri's concerned face. He squeezed his eyes shut again. " _Why_?" He asked nobody in particular. "Why are you here?"

"I-I heard your street was hit. I needed to see if you were all right,"

" _Нет_ , why are you in Leningrad? In _Россия_?" Ivan bit his lip and opened his eyes again, letting out a shuddering breath as tears ran down his face and got caught in his scarf.

"Vanya...I'm sorry, I really am," Dmitri murmured, carefully gathering the nation into an embrace.

Ivan buried his face into the composer's jacket and wept, clutching him like his life depended on it. He felt weak and pathetic, but he couldn't control himself. His skin was covered in cuts and burns, his wrist still ached, and his heart was drowning in misery. He hoped this was enough for his weakness to be forgiven.

But this was Dmitri. The kindest man he had ever met. He wouldn't criticise.

Still, he pulled away, feeling ashamed of himself. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, holding back another sob. He felt his heart leave him again, flopping onto the charred wood around them.

"Vanya, you dropped something," Dmitri said quietly, not knowing what it was. He was about to pick it up when a gloved hand stopped him.

"Don't touch it, please," Ivan begged him, reaching over and picking it up himself.

Dmitri's face morphed into disgust but also fascination.

"It's just my heart," Ivan explained, as if he were holding a rock that was thought to be a jewel.

Dmitri's mouth formed words that weren't spoken before finally, he let out a high-pitched, nervous squeak.

"P-put it back in then!" He exclaimed, "You're going to die!"

"Is that such a bad thing?" Ivan asked bitterly. He put it in nonetheless, unable to see Dmitri in such despair over something he thought was so trivial.

" _Да_ ," Dmitri answered him seriously, "it's terrible. We need you, Vanya. Now more than ever!" Ivan lowered his head, trying to focus on anything but Dmitri's kind words and the suffering of his people.

"Hey," Dmitri murmured, lowering himself to meet Ivan's gaze. "I need you, _хорошо?_ "

Ivan gave him a small smile and nodded his head, his chest filling with great determination at the composer's words.

"Come on, Vanya," Dmitri said as he stood. "I'll take you back to mine. Can you stand?"

Ivan pushed away his outstretched hand and slowly stood. He thought he had it, but a sharp pain in his heart made him wobble. Dmitri grabbed him and supported him the best he could, but the composer was both shorter and thinner than Ivan was, and it took them a considerable amount of time to even get on the street.

They slowly stumbled down the road, avoiding debris and people alike. Everywhere Ivan looked there was a building either on fire or still smoking. The people walked passed without a care.

That was the true Russian way. You see something that's horrible, beyond believable, and you turn away. You act like it isn't there.

Nothing's wrong at all! Life is getting merrier, comrades!

"Distract me, Mitya," Ivan murmured as they passed a crying girl wearing a torn dress. Ivan could feel her pain layer on top of his. Her mother and father were killed during the raid.

Dmitri was silent, unsure of what to say.

"Please." Ivan whispered.

"I started the second movement of the Seventh," Dmitri said, hardly hesitating at all this time. "I think I'll have it done within the next few weeks. The third should easily be finished by the end of the month,"

"And the fourth?" Ivan asked, keeping his gaze on the composer and not the burning street.

"I'm not sure what to do about that one," he admitted. "In order for it to be _realistic_ it should be triumphant, right?"

"I suppose,"

"How am I going to do that while people are dying?"

Ivan hummed, feeling a little relieved when he noticed that the street and his former home were becoming farther away. He thought seriously about the question.

"Think of it as...a reassurance," he offered.

"I can see the reviews now. ' _A triumphant yet reassuring ending to a symphony about the destruction of our homes'_ ," Dmitri said sarcastically.

Ivan grumbled. "I mean, think of it like you're telling people that their pain will be over. That the war is going to end eventually,"

"What if it ends with _Them_ winning?"

"Fine, make it like your Fifth then. Tragedy hiding in the triumph. ' _An ironic ending to a symphony about a war that could've easily been prevented if we had just got rid of Hitler while we still could'_ ," Ivan growled.

Dmitri fell silent for a moment. He seemed to be seriously thinking about the idea. "I guess I won't know until I start writing it," he concluded.

Ivan huffed and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Dmitri was trying his best to help, but Ivan was heavy, and it caused the composer's grip to slip time after time.

"Stop, stop, _stop_ ,' Ivan said frantically as he caught the noise of army trucks. Dmitri stopped and pulled them behind a building, seeming to sense the oncoming soldiers too.

Luckily, it was the Red Army. The Nazis hadn't invaded the city just yet. They stayed put however, just in case. Both armies were sketchy and unpredictable. The only good thing about the Red Army at this point was that they were Russian, and that Ivan had authority over them, even though he was beat up and his uniform was torn.

"Get everything you can and quickly!" Someone barked, "Generalissimo Stalin wants everything you can grab! If anyone causes an uproar, shoot them!"

Ivan and Dmitri exchanged glances, until Ivan realized with a gasp what they were doing.

"They're taking the food and supplies," He said, disbelief in his voice. "They're...but, you'll all starve!"

Dmitri looked uneasy as Ivan let out a large, frustrated breath. He was overcome with rage. He was shaking, his violet eyes shining with anger. He felt like screaming, he felt like punching someone.

He felt murderous.

"Vanya, Vanya, try to stay calm," Dmitri murmured, turning the nation's head towards him. He bravely looked him in the eyes. "Just breathe,"

"How am I supposed to _just breathe_ , when our own army is going to kill us!" Ivan whispered fiercely.

Dmitri shook his head. "Is there anything you can do?" He asked quietly, tentatively.

"Nothing! There's nothing!" Ivan nearly shouted, almost forgetting that they were in hiding. "Mitya, I can barely walk. I can't bark orders at them unless I look cold and heartless and...not like this." He looked at the ground. "Besides, even if I were capable, I wouldn't be able to override the order. Stalin made it himse-"

Ivan let out a gasp as he suddenly lost control of his legs. His knees buckled, and he had to grab on to Dmitri's shoulders to steady himself. The composer panicked and grabbed on to him a little too roughly, causing pain to make its way through his body.

"Vanya? Vanya, are you okay?" Dmitri asked frantically, loosening his face twitched as he tried to plaster on a calm mask, but his eyes were always so expressive. Ivan could tell that he was terrified. Even more so than he was after the _Muddle Instead of Music_ article.

"Don't worry about it," Ivan said, a pained smile on his face. "Your family is probably worried. We should hurry,"

Dmitri was more than hesitant, but he had no choice as Ivan started stumbling towards an alternative route.

They continued their slow trek across Leningrad. A normally 20 minute walk from Ivan's to Dmitri's was quadrupled, and by the time they got to the composer's apartment building, he was seeing black spots in his vision.

"Nita?" Dmitri called as they opened the door. Ivan sagged against him, barely able to function. He was slipping in and out of consciousness. The near destruction of the city was taking a toll on him. At least his heart seemed fine at the moment. It hurt, but it wasn't slipping out of his chest.

Nina, who seemed to have been waiting for them, came around the corner and covered her mouth with her hand when she saw Ivan. She rushed over to help her husband support him.

They led him to the sofa, carefully laying him down and covering him with a blanket.

"I always end up on this damned sofa when I visit," Ivan tried to joke.

They let out small sighs and smirked a little. Then they whispered among each other. When they were finished, they told him to rest and started walking away.

Ivan grabbed Dmitri's hand before he could leave. The composer looked surprised but turned towards him anyway.

"I'm sorry." Ivan whispered, "I never should have shoved you away. I've been terrible. So terrible…"

Dmitri was going to tell him that everything was okay, but Ivan didn't have the energy to stay awake anymore. He slipped into unconsciousness as soon as Dmitri started to speak.

* * *

Getting Ivan to and from the bomb shelters during raids was tough, but they managed to do it. The Germans hardly gave them a break. The siren went nearly every day.

During the air raids, Dmitri wrote the second movement of the symphony, often showing Ivan what he was writing to distract him from the pain he was in. He was getting used to it however, and after the second week of bombings, Ivan could manage on his own, albeit slowly and a little weakly. He started bringing his violin with him to the shelter and played Tchaikovsky as they waited for it to be over.

The third week of September was strange for them.

Dmitri finished the second movement, and suddenly, the Leningrad Radio wanted him to appear to talk about it.

"I know I told the Orchestra that it will be ready soon, but do I really need to go on the radio?" He asked Ivan as he opened the door to leave.

The nation shrugged, a smile playing on his lips. He felt proud of the composer. A radio appearance would be good for the city and the morale of the people.

Dmitri sighed. "Anyway, I should be back soon," and with that, he shut the door.

Dmitri made his way to the sitting room where Nina and the children were crowded around the radio. It didn't take too long for Dmitri to appear.

 _"An hour ago, I finished the second movement of a large symphonic composition. If I succeed in writing this composition well, and if I succeed in completing the third and fourth movements, then I will be able to call this composition my Seventh Symphony._ " Dmitri recited. _"Why am I announcing this? So that the people who are listening to me now will know that the life in our city goes on as normal. We are now doing our military duties. Soviet musicians, my dear friends, and numerous brothers-in-arms, remember that our art is now in great danger. Let's work honestly and selflessly to defend our music!_ "

Ivan couldn't help but chuckle. It was so unlike Dmitri, and the speech was full of nervous ticks, but he had succeeded with it. Ivan could already feel the hope growing in his chest.

Dmitri was embarrassed when he got back to the apartment, but it didn't help that Ivan was teasing him.

"Welcome back, brother-in-arms,"

"Shut up,"

* * *

That evening, he invited some musicians to come listen to the first two movements. Ivan sat at the end of the sofa with some of Dmitri's students from the conservatory. He stayed quiet as they joked with the composer. After a couple drinks, Dmitri started to play the symphony.

It was beautiful, bold. Ivan loved it.

Then an air raid siren ruined it in the middle of the invasion theme. They went quiet, but they didn't want to leave.

"Just wait here a moment. I'll be back," Dmitri murmured. He grabbed his family and took them outside. Ivan watched out the window as they made their way down the street to the bomb shelter. The students and other musicians made small talk, but Ivan didn't engage in conversation. He was watching the sky anxiously, waiting for the sharp pain of a bomb.

Dmitri was back in about five minutes. He resumed his seat at the piano and started over, this time making it through the whole two movements.

His students were holding back tears, looking away nervously and keeping their eyes lowered in case anyone accused them of showing tears. Ivan frowned down at his hands. No one was going to judge them, so why were they so nervous?

He was distracted by the sharp pain of a bomb. He held his side gingerly, but was pleasantly surprised when it seemed to be the only one.

The raid ended shortly after.

The students stood, hugged their teacher, gave him a kiss on the cheek to bid him farewell, and left.

Ivan laid down and watched Dmitri fondly as he left to go get Nina and the children. By the time they came back, he was already asleep, dreaming about a new Leningrad where sunflowers bloomed in the streets.

The only thing that offset the perfect image was a speaker blaring the invasion theme, accompanied by the sound of military boots.

* * *

 **I feel so bad for being so mean to Ivan omg D':**

 **hiiIIsstory tiemee**

 **Bombs started dropping on September 1st or 2nd, destroying a bunch of things in Leningrad (such as the electricity plant but that happened a bit later i think). Stalin wanted materials to help fight the Nazis for Moscow, and because he didn't care about Leningrad, he had soldiers pillage Leningrad for salvageable stuff, which left them with under like...40 bread rations and half of that for meat? I think this happened later in September but I used it earlier because I was going to forget about it if I didn't write it down lol.**

 **Second movement of the Seventh was started on the 2nd of September. Shostakovich finished it two weeks later between air raids n such. Then, he went on the radio to discuss it. If you look up Shostakovich Radio Speech 1941 on youtube you should find it. You can also find it on wikipedia somewhere.**

 **Shostakovich did play the first two movements for close friends while bombs were being dropped. He took his family to the bomb shelter and then went back home to finish. He also did the radio speech just before an air raid, so he would've been a little late getting to a shelter.**

 **Ivan's gonna go through some rough stuff next chapter, so be prepared :'(**

 **Thank you!**


	14. Winter

**OH MY GOD I'M SO SO SORRY EVERYONE**

 **I had writer's block for the longest time but then as soon as I finally finished this my freaking laptop broke and then i went on vacation for 3 weeks**

 **Urggg I hope you can all forgive me :/**

* * *

 **Winter**

 **1941**

 **Leningrad, Russia**

It was nearing the end of September. The air raids continued.

As hunger started to make its appearance in the city, Ivan found himself paying for it dearly. He became weak, his body temperature dropped, and he got incredibly thin.

Dmitri was determined to stay at his side, trying to distract him with the third movement of the Seventh. Ivan was truly grateful for it, but it seemed that nothing could distract him from this much destruction.

The entire city was down to only one place to receive their rations. That meant that people who lived on the side of the city that was farthest away from it normally didn't get their rations. If they were elderly or a child, those people were the first to go. They either died on the way there or died on the way back.

Morale was low, and everyday there were a new set of deaths. Some people were simply killing themselves. They didn't see an end to the chaos. Mostly, it was the cold, and the hunger.

He was pulled from his dark thoughts by approaching footsteps.

"How are you feeling today?" Dmitri asked quietly.

"Awful," Ivan answered honestly, turning his head to look at the composer.

Dmitri frowned and squeezed his hand. It was pretty much routine at this point. Dmitri would ask him how he was in the morning, he'd do something to show that he was there for him, and then he'd continue the Seventh.

Ivan let his eyes slip shut, but he wouldn't fall asleep. He felt so guilty. His people were starving, and there was nothing he could do.

He groaned and opened his eyes again, looking past Dmitri and out the window. He sighed and shivered, burying his face in his scarf.

"Do you need another blanket?" Dmitri asked quietly, not looking up from his manuscript.

" _Нет, нет,_ I'm fine," Ivan insisted, trying to stop the tremors that shot through his body. He was already covered in two wool blankets, his scarf, gloves, and the winter coat he had packed in one of his army bags.

Dmitri looked up at him from his score, gave him a disapproving look, then stood and left the room. Ivan watched sluggishly as he returned with another blanket.

"How many of these do you have?" Ivan asked as Dmitri tucked it around him.

Dmitri smiled. "This is the last one," he murmured, finally tucking the blanket around his feet. "Feel any warmer?" He asked.

Ivan sunk into the sofa with a sigh. He nodded his head and thanked the composer. Dmitri sat back down and frowned at his manuscript. He tapped the end of his pen against his lips before writing down a few more notes.

"Are you having trouble?" Ivan asked.

" _Нет_ , I just have a strange feeling,"

"A strange feeling?"

"About the symphony. I feel like it's not going to be completed,"

"Of course it'll be completed," Ivan assured him. "You've been working at it nonstop,"

"It's not my work I'm worried about," Dmitri admitted. He put the pen down and sighed. "What if I lose the script during an air raid? Or I forget it here and... _boom_ , _до свидания_ Leningrad. _До свидания_ Seventh Symphony,"

"You're too cautious for that," Ivan murmured.

"Anything could happen, Vanya,"

Ivan hummed as the composer picked up his pen again and began another measure. "We'll just have to make sure it doesn't," he finally said.

"Easier said than done in this _дерьмо_ ," Dmitri muttered.

Ivan smirked, finding the composer's use of swear words amusing. They fell silent as Dmitri continued working, resting his head on his left hand as he wrote with his right. Ivan watched him work with amusement. The composer would occasionally nod his head at what he was writing, or his face would twitch into a small, quirky smile.

He put his pen down again, looking agitated. "What if I die in the middle of writing it?" He asked out of nowhere.

Ivan sat up and faced him. " _What_?" He asked, surprised at the question.

"You heard me,"

"You're not going to die. If you're really worried about it you should evacuate while you still can,"

Dmitri made a face at the suggestion and shook his head. " _Нет_ , I don't think I want to leave," he murmured, "so if I stay and die while writing this I'm giving it to you to finish,"

Ivan stared at him in disbelief. "Why me? I know nothing about composition,"

"Get someone to help you then. Pick a composer and work with them on it," Dmitri answered. He then paused, thinking it over before scowling. "For the love of God, don't pick Prokofiev, or I'll come back as a vengeful spirit and murder you myself,"

Ivan rolled his eyes and wrapped the blankets around him like a cocoon. "What, you want me to go to America and kidnap Stravinsky?" he snapped.

"Well, if you insist," Dmitri smirked, a mischievous look in his eye.

Ivan shook his head but couldn't hold back his laughter. "Even if I wanted to, Alfred wouldn't let me near his country without actually being invited," he chuckled.

"Alfred?"

" _Америка_ ,"

"Ah...isn't he the one that doesn't invite you to anything? You really don't get along, do you?"

"We're...indifferent. It's our bosses who despise each other," Ivan sighed, "his boss doesn't trust me or Stalin,"

"Well, Stalin I understand, but you?"

Ivan gave a small smile at the comment. "Most people aren't like you, Mitya. They think that a country and it's boss share the same views and opinions. That their actions are our actions," Ivan frowned. "The president thinks that I'm just like Stalin, so he forbids Alfred from contacting me,"

"That doesn't seem right," Dmitri grumbled, his score forgotten. The composer looked furious, a deep frown on his face and his eyes stormy behind his glasses.

"I know Alfred doesn't care. I don't think he wanted to be my friend anyway," Ivan admitted, looking down at the ground. "But it's okay. It wouldn't have worked out,"

"You don't know that,"

"The only countries who are nice to me are the ones who are afraid of me. Estonia, Lithuania and Latvia. The only exceptions are Canada, but he's nice to everyone, and then of course my sisters," Ivan said.

Dmitri kept silent, waiting for Ivan to continue. The nation didn't say anything for a while though, he just chuckled darkly for a moment before looking up at the composer. Who he saw in front of him instead made his heart stop with fear.

Dmitri shivered, looking around to see if there was something causing the cold.

The composer couldn't see him, but Ivan could. He saw him walk over to the piano and run his hand along the keys, a smirk on his face. He saw him turn around and walk towards Dmitri. He saw him put his hands on the composer's shoulders.

"Vanya? Are you okay?" Dmitri asked.

" _Да_ , _Vanya_. Are you okay?" General Winter mocked, laughing as he grasped Dmitri's shoulders firmly.

"I'm fine," Ivan said slowly, glaring at the General as Dmitri shivered again.

"Is there...someone behind me?" Dmitri asked, catching Ivan's almost menacing look. The country nodded his head, watching General Winter as he scowled and made his way around the composer to where Ivan was sitting.

Ivan gulped and leaned away as General Winter sat next to him. The personification of Winter itself patted his knee. "Is that any way to treat a friend?" He asked, turning his head to the side and smiling.

Ivan narrowed his eyes at him. "What are you doing here?" He hissed. "It's only September,"

"Vanya, who are you talking to?" Dmitri asked, looking worried.

General Winter glanced at the composer and rolled his eyes. "You always pick the strange ones," he muttered. "Anastasia acted more like a man than a young lady, this one seems a little...off. Mentally and physically." the General smirked, enjoying how the comments enraged Ivan.

"Leave him the hell alone and answer me," Ivan snapped.

"I came to help you, Vanya, because you're my favourite nation," Winter said with a smile. "I have a proposition for you,"

"The answer is already _нет._ Leave."

"I'm not leaving until you listen to me,"

Ivan ignored him, his anger taking the place of his fear. He looked over at Dmitri, who was watching him with both concern and caution.

"Who are you talking to?" Dmitri asked again, glancing at the direction Ivan was leaning away from.

Ivan flinched as General Winter leaned over and stared at him with his dead, soulless eyes. "It's...complicated," he said, giving Dmitri an apologetic look.

Dmitri looked apprehensive, but he nodded his head. He muttered something about seeing what Nina was doing and stood, quickly leaving the room.

"Aw, Vanya, your _friend_ is afraid of you," General Winter commented.

Ivan scowled and looked at his feet. "What do you want?" He asked quietly.

"I want an early winter. A dark, _cold_ , early winter," The General grinned.

"It can't happen. My people are already starving, and they don't have a way to keep themselves warm," Ivan insisted.

"Neither do the Germans. You see, they're worse off than you are. They have no defence against me whatsoever." Winter grinned pleasantly. "Your people are used to me, his aren't. If you let me have an early winter, most of them will be wiped out,"

"How do you know?" Ivan snapped, turning his head away. "Ludwig is smart, he would have thought of this,"

"He didn't," the General said, leaving no room for more of an argument as he stood. He stared at Ivan before sighing. "I know I haven't treated you well-"

"That's an understatement,"

"...but you need to know that this is my home too. And that you _are_ my favourite. I'm doing this mostly because I would hate to see this land suffer more than it already has,"

Ivan was silent, biting his lip as he looked up at the General. Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Can I at least have some time to think about it?" He asked quietly.

General Winter smirked and nodded his head. "Think carefully, Vanya. Depending on your decision, I can either help you win or lose this war,"

With that, he turned away and disappeared in a flurry of cold wind and snowflakes.

Ivan shivered and looked down at the ground, thinking hard about the conversation. Was General Winter right? Would having an early winter really help?

Dmitri entered the room then. He wandered over and sat next to Ivan. "Are you okay?"

" _Нет_ , I'm not,"

Dmitri frowned and threw an arm over the nation's shoulder. Ivan relaxed into him and found himself explaining everything.

Dmitri kept silent, listening carefully to everything Ivan was telling him.

It was nice to have someone to lean on once in awhile.

* * *

" _Vanya! Vanya, come here!"_

 _Ivan stopped making his way around the palace grounds and walked back over to the gardens. He frowned when he saw Anastasia sitting there, her dress dirty and a grin on her face._

" _Anastasie," he sighed in almost annoyance, "your mother is going to be murderous,"_

 _Anastasia rolled her eyes. "I don't care, and you shouldn't either," she muttered._

 _Ivan frowned and walked over to her. He sat down in front of her and rested his head on the palm of his hand. He watched as she stared down at something in her lap._

" _Here," she finally said, holding it up. It was a loop of the garden's sunflowers all weaved together to make a beautiful crown. "I made it for you. I know how much you like sunflowers,"_

 _Ivan blinked and straightened his posture. He stared in surprise as Anastasia smiled and lightly put the crown of sunflowers on his head._

" _It's perfect!" Anastasia exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear._

 _Ivan smiled at her excitement. He adjusted the crown as a warm feeling grew in his chest. "Nobody has made a crown for me before," he said teasingly. He paused at Anastasia's soft look. He ruffled her hair playfully. "_ _ **Спасибо**_ _," he murmured kindly._

 _Anastasia's smile was wiped off of her face as she shivered, and a small hole started forming on her forehead. Ivan frowned with concern. This wasn't what was supposed to happened next. Back then, she had put on a crown of her own and he followed him around the palace grounds as she talked to him about her day._

 _This time, blood started pouring from the wound in her head. She closed her eyes and slumped over, falling to the ground in front of him. Ivan stared down in shock, then looked around him to find thousands of people around him, falling from gunshot wounds, one by one._

 _Ivan swallowed thickly and looked up to see General Winter looming over him. He glanced around again, this time noticing the bodies of starving children._

" _You must accept the cold, Vanya," General Winter boomed, "or there will be more blood on your hands. Including theirs,"_

 _The bodies of Dmitri, Nina, Galina, and Maxim appeared in front of him, dropping to the ground as if they were tied to weights that pulled them there. Ivan seemed to choke, beginning to shake violently._

Ivan woke with tears running down his face, and a sense of cold that wouldn't go away. It was morning. Very early in the morning. Nobody else was awake.

What was the date? Oh. October 1st.

He wiped his eyes and sat up, taking a deep breath before throwing off his blankets and standing. Just as he was about to check on Nina and Dmitri, there was a knock at the door.

Ivan cautiously made his way towards the door and opened it, surprised when it revealed two red army soldiers with General Winter hovering behind them.

"Marshal Ivan Braginsky," one of the soldiers said, surprise in his tone. He held out his hand. "Captain Anatoly Dimitrievich Marinov," he said.

Ivan took it and shook. "Pleasure to meet you, comrade," he lied through his teeth.

"Likewise, Marshal Braginsky," Anatoly said, a smile on his face. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but what are you doing in comrade Shostakovich's apartment?"

Ivan nearly rolled his eyes at the skepticism detected in the captain's tone.

 _Why, Anatoly Dmitrievich, since there's a war going on, we thought this was the most suitable time to plan the assassination of Stalin, our Great Leader and Teacher, Father of Children, Great Gardener. Satisfied with my answer Anatoly Dmitrievich?_

"My townhouse was destroyed a month ago. Comrade Shostakovich was kind enough to invite me to stay in his apartment," Ivan explained, glancing at General Winter, who looked amused at the whole encounter.

"What a good man!" Anatoly exclaimed.

"Precisely, now why are you here?" Ivan asked, getting straight to the point.

"We have orders to evacuate comrade Shostakovich and his family to Moscow immediately," Anatoly said.

"Whose orders? Generalissimo Stalin's?"

" _Нет_ , an...anonymous...yet higher power, sir,"

Ivan looked over at General Winter and it suddenly all made sense. The General had an honestly kind smile on his face. It was him who had made the order. He was actually trying to let them get out of the city safely.

Ivan's thoughts fell apart as his knees started to shake. He was still quite weak, unable to hold himself up for long periods of time. Before he knew it, he was being caught by Anatoly and half-carried into the apartment. He was calm, quiet as he helped Ivan into the sitting room and on to the sofa.

"Are you injured, sir?" Anatoly murmured, gently feeling for any wounds.

" _Нет_ , I'm fine, Captain, _спасибо_ ," Ivan gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm...just a little ill,"

"A little? You look like a ghost!" Anatoly gave him a small laugh.

Ivan tilted his head a little, finding himself starting to like this man. He hummed, a smile playing on his lips. "You should sit until comrade Shostakovich wakes," he said, laying down and gesturing towards the armchairs.

Anatoly and his partner sat down, looking around and inspecting the room. General Winter, who remained unseen by everyone but Ivan, had perched on the edge of the sofa by Ivan's feet. He watched the nation carefully, as if waiting for him to react. Ivan simply glanced at him and went back to ignoring him.

It didn't take long for Dmitri to enter the room, his hair a mess. He was dressed in a suit, as was normal for him. His glasses were slightly askew, but overall, he looked well put together, like he was expecting someone to be there.

However, he looked surprised that there were two red army officers in his sitting room, chatting with Ivan like they were old friends.

"May I help you gentlemen?" He asked softly, a nervous edge in his voice.

Anatoly shot out if his seat and made his way towards Dmitri. "Comrade Shostakovich, we have orders to evacuate you and your family out of Leningrad and into Moscow,"

Dmitri blinked and looked over at Ivan, who was staring at him, silently pleading with him to go willingly.

"What if I don't wish to leave Leningrad?" Dmitri asked, turning back to Anatoly.

"There is no choice," Anatoly said, a twinge of regret in his voice. "It's a direct order from the higher ups,"

At Dmitri's slightly pissed off expression, Anatoly's posture and approach softened. "Listen, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't be wise to stay. The Nazis have closed all roads, all railroads, and they have every eye on the sky. It's a miracle that we even got here to collect you," he put his hands on the frail composer's shoulders. "You're very brave for wanting to stay, but you must take into consideration your family, and the creation of your Seventh Symphony,"

Ivan sat up and blinked at the captain. He was surprised at the display of kindness. This man was definitely hard to read.

Dmitri was silent for a moment before nodding his head. "You're right," he murmured. " _Да, да_ , you're right," he sighed, fixing his glasses and then his hair. "Could you…"

Anatoly nodded his head quickly. "Of course. Mikhail, we'll wait outside for comrade Shostakovich and his family,"

The other officer followed Anatoly outside, glancing over at Dmitri as he left.

"Did you send them, Vanya?" Dmitri asked, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

" _Нет!_ How could I? I was on your sofa all week!" Ivan exclaimed, hurt at the accusation.

"They said the order came from the higher ranks. I doubt it would be straight from Stalin, and Tukhachevsky is…" Dmitri trailed off, his eyes everywhere but in Ivan's direction. They suddenly met his with rage and hurt. "So it had to have been you. You are the only one who would care enough. You know I want to stay here so why did you do it?"

"Mitya I-"

"Save it. I can't believe you betrayed my trust! I thought you were different than them, but it looks like I was-"

" _Enough_!"

Dmitri jumped as General Winter decided to make his presence known. There was incredible annoyance on his face that Ivan had never seen before. Ivan was confused by the outburst, but felt grateful at the same time.

The General stood from his seat on the sofa and slowly made his way towards Dmitri, appearing like a giant beside Dmitri's small, delicate frame.

"I was the one who made the order," he said angrily, a flurry of snow surrounding him. "Vanya had nothing to do with this. If you were truly his friend, you would know this. You would trust him just as much as he trusts you,"

Dmitri said nothing. He merely stared up at Winter in both disbelief and awe at the power the General possessed. The personification of winter narrowed his eyes at him. "Humans," he spat, turning towards Ivan. "Why do you associate yourself with them?"

Ivan was still in shock from Dmitri's accusation and the General's act of defending him. He merely shook his head, a small breath escaping his lips. He caught Dmitri's apologetic look, but he couldn't seem to accept it.

Something in his heart twisted painfully at the thought of how untrustworthy he seemed to be in the composer's eyes. He lowered his head and sighed, burying his face in his scarf.

"Vanya," General Winter's voice was soft. "It's time,"

Ivan took deep breaths and shook his head slightly. He couldn't decide now! It was all too much.

General Winter had an icy hand on his shoulder, an attempt to show his support.

"Fine," Ivan finally said. "...get it over with. Please,"

General Winter nodded his head and placed both hands on the sides of Ivan's face. Ivan felt a coldness seep down his neck and into his chest, grabbing a hold of his heart. He gritted his teeth at the icy pain it caused him, groaning loudly as nausea hit him.

Dmitri took a few steps forward to stop the General when he seemed to be paralyzed by the icy glare he received. General Winter growled and turned his attention back to Ivan. He ran his cold hand through the nation's hair. Ivan shivered as the pain ceased, but was left weak from it.

He slumped back on to the couch, exhausted from the experience. General Winter gave him a fond look. " _Спасибо_ , Vanya. Your suffering will not be in vain,"

With that, he turned away and disappeared, leaving a chill in the room.

"Vanya I-"

"You should get your family and pack your things," Ivan cut in tensely.

Dmitri swallowed and nodded his head, turning around and making his way back to the rooms. He emerged a few minutes later with Ivan's own army bags. He put them by the door and glanced at the nation, who simply stared.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice rough.

"You're coming with us," Dmitri said, as if it was completely obvious.

"Absolutely not," Ivan snapped, shaking his head and staggering to a stand. "I will _not_ be leaving Leningrad,"

Dmitri opened his mouth to argue but he was cut off by Captain Marinov entering the room.

"I apologize if I'm interrupting," he said, "but Marshal Braginsky, we have orders from Generalissimo Stalin to evacuate you to Moscow immediately. You will be leaving with comrade Shostakovich."

Ivan swallowed thickly and glared at the wall. "Very well," he muttered, his tone clipped. "I'll wait outside then,"

He shuffled passed Dmitri and towards the door. Anatoly helped him pick up his bags and led him outside, where they sat against the wall and waited.

They were silent, staring at the ground and waiting. Anatoly sat next to Ivan, staring at him like he was sitting beside the most famous person in the world. Ivan glanced at him, somewhat disturbed by the attention he was getting. Anatoly finally leaned forward and smiled.

"Why do you wear that scarf?" He asked good-naturedly, "October just started!"

Ivan looked down at his scarf and subconsciously adjusted it, fiddling with the ends as they slipped off of his shoulders and onto his chest. "I have...a condition," he murmured, only half lying.

Anatoly hummed and left it alone, sensing that Ivan didn't want to talk about it. The nation was grateful for it, shuddering and burying his face deeper into his scarf.

"What about the winter coat?"

Ivan closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm a cold person, I get cold easily," he muttered.

"Even in October?"

Ivan shrugged, "like I said, I have a condition,"

Anatoly narrowed his eyes but nodded his head. He was obviously suspicious and dissatisfied with his answer, but Ivan didn't want to clarify. He wasn't interested in small, personal talk with the Captain.

Dmitri and his family came out of their apartment moments later, carrying their bags and looking miserable about the situation. Ivan waited until they closed the door before standing with Anatoly's help. The Captain took his bags and motioned for them to follow him to the military vehicle they had parked down the road.

The drive to where the plane was safely parked wasn't long. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Anatoly stepped out and opened the door for Ivan. The other soldier, Mikhail, did the same for Dmitri and his family. They hurried on to the plane, taking their seats quickly as the soldiers loaded their luggage.

Ivan stared out the window as they finally took off.

He swore he could see the snow starting to fall.

* * *

 **Good old History Time**

 **Okay so Shostakovich really didn't want to leave Leningrad because he felt he had to stay there to complete his Seventh. He felt like he owed his home city that, so you can imagine how guilty he felt when he had to evacuate at the last minute.**

 **I added General Winter because that winter in Leningrad was one of the longest and coldest in Leningrad history. I decided to write him as like...only slightly insane? Because he does help Ivan out during wars and stuff, so I don't think he'd treat Ivan like _complete_ crap.**

 **Ahh okay**

 **The whole America thing**

 **I personally think that America doesn't hate Russia at all. At least not at the moment, the cold war is a different story. Anyway, we all know how much everyone hates Stalin, so I thought it would make at least a little sense if America wasn't like best friends with Russia but he certainly didn't loathe him.**

 **Sorry for the kind of angsty fight Dmitri and Ivan have :0**

 **Captain Anatoly is fictional...I'm not sure how he got there and why I wrote him like he has the biggest crush on Ivan but *shrugs***

 **I hope you guys enjoyed and once again I'm really really sorry for not updating sooner :/**

 **See you next time :)**


	15. Meeting

**Thank you to everyone who's sticking around :) school starts tomorrow so I won't be able to update a whole lot (but I'm definitely going to try!)**

* * *

 **Meeting**

 **1941**

 **Washington DC, U.S.A.**

Ivan kept his hands clasped on the table in front of him, squeezing them tightly to keep himself from falling asleep. He was exhausted. He still hadn't recovered from letting General Winter take over the day before. He thought over the events that had led up to him being in America among the other Allied Powers.

As soon as they arrived in Moscow, Ivan was taken rather forcefully from the plane. He couldn't do anything but comply. He was barely able to function let alone fight off three NKVD officers. He remembered looking back at Dmitri, noticing how guilty he both looked and felt.

And then he was in a car with Generalissimo Stalin, where he had been beaten to near unconsciousness for appearing too weak.

Then they got on another plane and flew to America's capital city for a meeting.

And now he was sitting at a long table in between France and America, across from Stalin. He was sore, he was tired, he was starving, and cold. Extremely cold.

"Russia? Dude are you even listening to me?"

Russia blinked and sat up straighter, gulping at the glare he received from Stalin. He looked over at America and gave him a fake smile. "Да, of course," he lied.

"Okay….? Your country's condition?"

Complete shit, Alfred. Complete, utter shit. Help me.

"Er...it's...it's good. We have a strong army...so...holding off Germany shouldn't be an issue," Ivan stuttered, alarmed to find his English was faltering from how exhausted he was.

America's eyes showed concern, but the rest of his face showed amusement. "Dude, how much vodka did you have on the way here?" He laughed. It sounded like the nervous strings of one of Dmitri's symphonies.

"My personification would not be that foolish," Stalin growled, glaring at America.

America was irritated. Ivan could tell in the way his lips twitched and his blue eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses. "Of course not, Mr. Stalin," he said, his smile still plastered on his face.

Ivan looked down at his hands, trying to control the fear that was taking a hold on him. He was certainly going to pay for America's rudeness.

As England started speaking, Ivan felt a hand on his back. He winced at the twinge of pain it sent through him, but he collected himself as America started whispering in his ear.

"Ivan, is everything really okay?" He asked, the worry in his voice surprising the colder nation.

Ivan couldn't seem to answer, so he shook his head slightly. Stalin's eyes bore right into his, as if challenging him. Ivan could hear Dmitri's invasion theme play over and over in his head, growing more and more savage as it repeated. He wanted it to stop. Stalin, the war, the theme, even the thoughts about the composer. He lowered his hands into his lap and balled them into tight fists.

Unpleasant thoughts threw themselves around his mind until the hand that was on his back was suddenly on his fist. He blinked in surprise and looked over at America, who was looking over at England as if he wasn't doing anything uncharacteristically kind.

Ivan could have cried over the show of support, but Stalin was still watching him, unaware of America's actions.

Finally they called a break, standing and dispersing. Stalin went off to grab something to eat. It had Ivan nearly deflating in relief. He stood far too quickly, knowing that he should follow his boss. He didn't know he was unsteady until America jumped up out of his seat beside him.

"Whoa, Ivan! Take it easy!" America exclaimed, grabbing onto the nation to keep him from falling over.

"I'm sorry," Ivan whispered, shakily sitting back down.

America shot back down into his seat. "Dude, what are you apologizing for?" He was laughing, but his eyes shone with concern and uncertainty.

Ivan couldn't bring himself to answer. Instead, he bit his lip and fiddled with his scarf.

"Look, Vanya," Ivan blinked at the use of the diminutive of his name. "I know we aren't exactly 'besties' or whatever, but you can tell me what's going on," Alfred gave him an almost blinding grin. "After all, I am a hero!"

Ivan blinked again, and slowly, a small smile spread across his face. "Спасибо, Fedya," he murmured.

"Don't make it weird dude, just tell me what's going on."

The smile slipped off of Ivan's face as he nodded his head. He suddenly found himself telling Alfred about the situation in Leningrad, including General Winter and his close...formerly close friend Dmitri Shostakovich. He spoke in rushed, quiet tones, often looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping.

"The troops are hungry," Ivan concluded, "but the others are dying of starvation...it's horrible."

Alfred looked like he was far away as he took a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lit it with one of his matches. He puffed on it before grabbing Ivan's shoulder. "I'll do everything I can to help, and I'm sure Canada will do the same. Right bro?"

Ivan blushed with shame as he only just realized Canada sitting on the edge of the table just behind America. The shy nation looked extremely determined, and it made Ivan shiver.

"Sorry, Matty gets a little carried away when it comes to justice and helping people and all that shit," America laughed, waving his cigarette as he talked.

"It's not shit, Alfred, it's important," Canada muttered, blowing a curl out of his face in irritation. Ivan would have laughed if he didn't feel so awkward all of a sudden.

"Whatever, dude."

Canada glared at him and slid off of the table. "I'm getting some drinks," he said before storming off.

Ivan blinked and watched him go, turning a questioning glance towards Alfred. Canada was acting extremely strange.

"This war's got him real tense. He had a hard few years after the first one, and now he's all strung out again over this one," Alfred sighed, looking a little downcast. "He's friends with Prussia, y'know, so…"

Ivan looked away, unsure if America should be telling him all of this. Then again, they weren't beating each other up or declaring war on each other, and their bosses seemed to be acting civilized, so maybe he should just roll with it.

He was brought out of his thoughts when Canada suddenly slammed a cup of coffee onto the table in front of America.

"Dude, what the hell!"

Canada ignored him and turned towards Ivan. He paused, gently handing him a cup of tea. Ivan smiled gratefully and took it, vaguely wondering how the younger nation knew what he took in it. Canada was about to sit back onto the table when his Prime Minister came over and cleared his throat, motioning for him to sit in his seat.

Ivan watched with horror as Canada rolled his eyes at his boss. He threw back some of his tea, welcoming how it burned his mouth. He was just waiting for Canada's leader to do something horrible to the young country, but Prime Minister King merely grumbled about how immature he was.

It was then that Ivan remembered that not every leader was like Stalin. He wondered what it must be like to adore your boss, like America did, or at least somewhat get along with them, like Canada.

All of the Countries and their bosses came back into the room and they continued their discussion. Ivan didn't listen to a word of it. He shakily drank his tea, avoiding whoever looked in his direction. He desperately wanted to go back home. He wanted to go apologize to Dmitri. For what, he wasn't sure. The composer had insulted him after all. But he just felt that he needed to do it.

The meeting ended, but everyone lingered. America, England, France, and Canada gathered in a small huddle and talked about how they needed to get together after the war to have some family time. Ivan ended up slowly standing and walking towards the door, their conversation saddening him. He thought of his sisters who were currently under Ludwig's control. He couldn't help but feel a pang of grief.

Stalin grabbed him and pulled him down the hallway. Ivan's heart was threatening to literally fall out of his chest. He felt so scared, like he was a little child again, alone in the snow.

Stalin finally stopped and rounded on him, slapping him hard in the face. "You are appearing weak. You're an embarrassment." he hissed.

"I apologize, sir," Ivan muttered automatically.

"I should send you to the gulag,"

"Sir, I-"

"I'm not finished."

"...of course, sir,"

"I need as much power in the field as I can get. You will be fighting in the battle for Moscow,"

Ivan felt like his soul was leaving his body. Like he had just died and went to hell. He opened his mouth but he couldn't say anything.

"This is bullshit!" someone shouted in English.

Ivan felt arms around his waist.

"He's barely standing, you can't send him into battle!"

Ivan blinked. It was America, speaking Russian. He was butchering it, of course, but his message came across clearly. Theodore Roosevelt stood behind them, yelling at America for being foolish.

Ivan noticed how irritated Stalin appeared. He wanted to tell Alfred to stop, that it wasn't worth it, but he was already being dragged away by Stalin. The small, chubby man kept a hold on him until they reached the car.

There was another beating coming, Ivan could feel it. He was tense the whole time, just waiting.

It never came.

* * *

A loud, frantic knock on the door woke Ivan from his three day long sleep. He wanted to ignore the loud noise, but he felt that it could be extremely important, so he fell out of his bed, got dressed, walked down the stairs, and opened the door.

At first he thought he was hallucinating. Then he remembered that he was in Moscow, and that Dmitri's new apartment was in Moscow. That still didn't answer the question of why the composer was standing in the doorway.

" _Привет_ , Vanya," the composer murmured nervously.

Ivan could only stare at him. What was he doing? Was he here to apologize?

" _Привет_ ," he replied softly.

The composer stood there for a moment, making the whole encounter rather awkward. Finally, Ivan decided to break the silence.

"Look, Mitya-"

"Vanya, I'm-"

They fell silent. Ivan fiddled with his scarf. "You go first," he said quietly.

Dmitri's hands twitched as he licked his lips nervously. "I just...want to apologize. For everything." He took a shaky breath and fixed his glasses. "I was...well, there really is no excuse for what I accused you of,"

Ivan stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to do. Truthfully, he had forgiven the composer about a day ago, after he thought it all over. They were friends. Friends fight all the time.

Ivan noticed he was staring at the composer for longer than he should be. He smiled and stepped to the side. "I forgive you, Mitya. I was at fault as well, and I'm sorry."

Dmitri shook his head as he entered the house. It wasn't as nice as the one in Leningrad. There were no decorations, no paintings, no books, nothing. Save for the score of the Fifth, which was sitting proudly on the coffee table in the sitting room, and the large portrait of Stalin that loomed over the room.

Ivan caught Dmitri staring at it and moved it a little, pulling a black cloth from behind the painting. He draped it over the portrait, covering the Great Leader's face with it.

Dmitri raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Ivan motioned for him to sit as he left the room to make some tea. When he came back, he sat opposite of the composer, awkwardly sipping his tea.

Dmitri had gulped all of his down in a fit of nerves, his hands twitching and his eyes wandering. Ivan finally sighed and stood. "Mitya, you shouldn't worry so much," he said, "I thought I said I forgive you,"

Dmitri smiled a little. "You did. I just can't help but feel guilty,"

Ivan nodded his head, frowning in thought. He had no idea what would cheer the composer up. He had tried tea, maybe talking about it would help? Ivan glanced at Dmitri, his gaze falling to his nervous hands. He smiled.

"Mitya, you really shouldn't feel guilty," he said, holding his hand out for the composer to take. "Come on, there's something I need to show you," he added, motioning with his outstretched hand.

Dmitri took it and pulled himself off of the sofa. He let go and followed Ivan up the stairs and into a room on their immediate right. Inside there was a grand piano, looking a little dusty, but still in good shape. Behind the piano was a tall bookshelf that held thick books of sheet music.

"Go on," Ivan murmured, "start warming up. I have to tune my violin,"

Dmitri took a somewhat reluctant seat on the bench and ran his right hand along the black and white keys to dust them off. He played an E flat and cringed when it sounded like a D flat. Ivan chuckled nervously and ran a hand across the keys, motioning for Dmitri to try again when he was finished. To the composer's astonishment, the piano was perfectly in tune.

Dmitri used the time Ivan took to tune his violin to work out new ideas for his Seventh Symphony. Ivan admittedly spent more time pretending to tune than actually tuning, just so he could hear what his friend had come up with. When the piano fell silent, Ivan walked over to the sheet music on his bookshelf and rapidly scanned them for something to play.

"Ah...Saint-Saëns?" Ivan asked Dmtri over his shoulder.

Shostakovich turned to face him and frowned. "How did you get that?" He asked.

Ivan took it as a yes and pulled the sheet music off of the shelf. "Pulled a few strings with France," he replied, setting up the piano part for him.

" _Introduction et Rondo Capriccioso_ ," Dmitri murmured, reading the score carefully. Ivan hummed and put his violin under his chin, holding it there as he put rosin on his bow. He made eye contact with Dmitri, nodded once, and they began playing.

Dmitri kept up quite well for just sight reading the score. The piano met the violin with an electrifying force, their notes twirling around like a tornado. Even the sweeter part of the piece sounded ferocious. All of their anger and despair poured into their instruments, until finally, it was over.

Ivan took deep breaths as he lowered his violin. His hands and wrists ached and sweat beaded down his face, but nevertheless he felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He looked over at Dmitri, whose hands were on his thighs as if he had just ran a marathon. They made eye contact, smiled breaking out on their faces.

They laughed for a good ten minutes before Dmitri stood and hugged the taller man. Ivan patted him in the back, overwhelmed with joy. He knew it wouldn't last long, so he decided to concentrate on how it felt, memorizing the feeling with great care.

However, when Dmitri left that night, leaving him alone in his dark, cold, house, he couldn't seem to remember a single detail about it.

* * *

 **-** **Shosty and Ivan are friends again!**

 **Okay so I'm pretty sure there wouldn't actually be a meeting in America during WW2 but I had to do it because Alfred is gonna be kind of important later on.** **Also after Russia switched sides, America was one of their main sources of supplies and stuff (you can probably find some posters on google)**

 **I made Canada and Prussia friends because I love them**

 **Well okay, also because here in Canada (near Toronto I think) there's an area called New Prussia and that was kind of a wink to that.**

 **Stalin is a dick. Nothing new here -.-**

 **At this point Shostakovich has only finished three of the four movements of the Seventh, so when he's "warming up" he's actually trying to compose the fourth movement (which he didn't get done till like...November-January ish?)**

 **Also _I_** ** _ntroduction et Rondo Capriccioso_ is great and you should listen to it. I listened to it while I was writing this and decided that it was a good piece for Ivan and Shostakovich to vent with.**

 **Thank you :)**


	16. До свидания, Москва

**Maria: YIKES THANK YOU FOR POINTING THAT OUT (thats so embarrassing omg :'d) I'm glad you like it though! I seriously know nothing about actual history (besides the research i've done for this) so I'm really sorry about that lmao**

 **ABCSKW123-IX: Ah yes, Saint-Saens is nice but terrible to play :/ Yes, Shosty and Ivan are gr8 and must b protected :)**

 **Thanks for ur reviews guys :D**

* * *

 _ **До свидания, Москва**_

 **1941**

 **Leaving Moscow, Russia**

"Wait a moment. We'll find it,"

Ivan shuffled down the platform, moving people out of the way. He didn't have his uniform on, which meant that no one would move out of his way when prompted. Dmitri was not far behind him, his eyes wide behind his glasses. They scanned the ground, searching for the large, rectangular, cloth-bundled score for the Seventh Symphony.

"I can't see it!" Dmitri exclaimed, his voice wavering with emotion.

Ivan stopped and turned around, putting his hands on the smaller man's shoulders and looking into his eyes. "We _will_ find it, Mitya. I know we will," he murmured.

"But...what if we don't? A-all of that work...gone! And the people in Leningrad, they're counting on me to...to…"

"Hush. Mitya, please stop worrying. We'll deal with it when the time comes,"

Ivan gave his friend's shoulders a gentle squeeze before turning back around to look some more. He didn't have much time. He had to get back into Moscow to discuss military action and prepare for the front line.

In a matter of minutes, he had lost Dmitri, and lost himself in a sea of moving bodies. He pushed against the crowd, but the authorities corrected him with a rough shove towards the train. They didn't seem to recognize him without his uniform on.

"Wait, I'm not supposed to be on this train!" Ivan yelled as they shoved him on and closed the door. He rapped on the door with his fist, but had no luck. "My name is Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky! My rank is Marshal of the Soviet Union! You _will_ open this door for me!" he yelled, authority quite clear in his tone.

But it was too late. The train was already leaving Moscow.

Ivan took a few steps backwards, his throat suddenly dry and his heart racing. Paranoia set in, as did the sinking feeling that he was going to pay dearly for what had just happened. He looked around, trying to stay calm, but he found it too crowded for him to think.

The train was filled with fear and anxiety. People wondering where they were going. People wondering if they were going to live or not. Ivan bit his lip and hurried to the back, where the bathroom was. He gently pushed his way through the crowds of people, his breathing quickening as he became more claustrophobic.

Finally, he threw open the door, and nearly vomited at the sight.

The room was small, the toilet was overflowing, and it smelled _horrid_. Ivan took a step forward to open the hatch in the ceiling when he heard something squish under his boot. He shut his eyes in disgust and controlled his breathing before opening them again and tentatively stepping back.

Underneath his foot was a rectangular shaped package, bundled in a blanket. Curious, and thankful for his gloves, Ivan unwrapped it and gasped at what he saw.

It was Dmitri's manuscript for the Seventh.

Ivan threw the blanket on the floor and removed his soiled gloves, gingerly holding the sheet music in his hands as he hurried out of the bathroom. He had no idea where his friend was, so he checked every seat in every compartment, running around the train like a madman. Finally, he found the composer, who was sitting alone, his eyes darting around nervously until they caught Ivan's.

"Vanya? I thought you were in-"

"Mitya!" Ivan cut him off, rushing over to the seat. "I...I found…" he paused to take a few deep breaths, ignoring Dmitri's concerned expression. Instead of explaining, Ivan decided to simply shove the score into its creator's hands.

Dmitri's eyes widened behind his round, boyish glasses. He looked down at the score, then back at Ivan, then back at the score, just to make sure that what he was seeing was real.

"I found it in the washroom," Ivan said quietly, sitting gracelessly beside his friend. He took deep breaths through his nose and focused on the floor, trying to calm his ridiculously fast heartbeat.

Dmitri surprised him by setting aside the score and putting a gentle hand on his back. The sudden calm that was coming from the composer was surprising, considering the fact that he was his usual bundle of nerves a few moments ago.

"You know," Dmitri murmured, "when I was young-"

"You're young now," Ivan cut in, looking over at him.

"When I was _younger -_ there, is that better?"

" _Да,"_

"As I was saying...I used to work with Meyerhold in his theatre company. We were rehearsing a show and I had misplaced my sheet music in the theatre," Dmitri paused, seeming to recall what happened in great detail. "I was in tears, frantically searching for my sheet music. I was afraid of disappointing my friend and the actors in the production. But Seva gently pulled me aside and asked what was wrong. When I told him, he was very kind, embracing me and telling me that if we didn't find it, we'd manage without it,"

Ivan smiled. That was very like Vsevolod Meyerhold.

"The point is, when I get upset or anxious, I just imagine what Seva would say, and for some reason, it helps,"

Ivan nodded his head, understanding what the composer was getting at. He tried to picture someone who would reassure him while he was anxious or upset. He smiled bittersweetly. His sister used to be that person for him. Now, their relationship was ruined, both by his own mistakes and Germany's.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Dmitri stood, his bags in hand. "I'm going to find Nita and the children," he said. Ivan stood to let him into the aisle. "Would you like to come with me?"

" _нет, спасибо,_ " Ivan replied, shaking his head as he sat down. "I would like to be alone for now,"

Dmitri gave him a small smile and a nod of his head. Ivan watched him leave, a sense of pride swelling in his chest.

If he was as horrible as everyone thought, how did he manage to be the nation that was home to such a remarkable man?

* * *

It took over eighteen hours to get to Kuibyshev.

And another two to be assigned an apartment.

Fortunately, Ivan was just above Dmitri and his family, which may or may not have been due to the fact that he pulled rank to get there. Because Ivan didn't have any personal belongings with him, he helped his friend unpack instead. As he did, he debated going back to Moscow, but after some thought, and some honing in on what was going on, he thought he better not. Although Stalin wanted him to assist the men, he just couldn't bring himself to go there. He was uncontrollable during battle, and sometimes he couldn't tell his men from the enemy's.

When they had finished unpacking, Dmitri sighed and looked around. "All that's missing is a piano," he murmured. Ivan noticed his fingers twitching against his thigh as if he were pressing on keys. He hummed thoughtfully, remembering the music store he had visited in Kuibyshev a long time ago.

That night, instead of going to sleep like he had planned, he walked to the same store, and traded everything that was in his pockets for a piano.

* * *

Dmitri continued to work on his seventh symphony, growing even more frustrated as the days went by. If he ever stepped foot out of the apartment, he was questioned about his symphony. After a few days, he simply stayed inside.

It was December when his inspiration finally struck him.

Ivan woke one crisp morning to find Dmitri standing in his doorway, his lips twitching into a smile and his hands behind his back. When Ivan sat up, he practically ran over, revealing the completed score for the Seventh,

"You finished it?" Ivan asked, instantly awake and attentive.

Dmitri smiled smugly and handed it to him, waiting patiently as he scanned the sheet music. The fourth movement had themes from the first three in it, but with a more frantic touch to it. It started a little soft, but gradually became extremely loud and almost terrifying.

When he finished, he handed the score back. "Your symphonies never cease to amaze me, Mitya," he said honestly. "It's very well done."

Dmitri smiled at the compliment. " _Спасибо,_ " he said, "I'm sending it to the Orchestra today. Hopefully it will premiere in March."

Even the thought of hearing another one of Dmitri's symphonies had Ivan excited. He grinned at the composer and pulled him into an awkward hug, "You have made me very proud, Mitya," he admitted. "You and your symphony are going to bring life back to my Leningrad,"

Dmitri pulled away, a strange glint in his eyes. "I hope so, Vanya." He said. "I really do,"

That night, they celebrated with a few drinks, and played a duet on the piano for Nina and the children. Ivan, who had no idea how to play before, found it difficult to keep up with Dmitri, but eventually he somewhat got the hang of it. What he lacked in skill he made up for in tone and voice. Besides, whenever he was off-tempo, Dmitri would work around it, creating a hybrid style that Ivan actually found pleasing. He made a note to ask his friend to properly teach him sometime, even writing it on his hand in case he forgot in his buzzed haze.

When it was Maxim and Galina's bedtime, Dmitri walked them to their rooms while Nina stayed seated in the living room.

They sat in a comfortable silence until Nina started laughing quietly to herself.

"What's so funny?" Ivan asked, amusement in his own voice.

"I'm just thinking...we really are family, aren't we?" She smiled at him, leaning towards him as she spoke. "Galina called you 'Uncle Ivan' the other day. I think it suits you,"

Ivan's eyes widened, his own smile growing. "Really?" he asked quietly, his heart swelling at the thought.

Nina nodded her head and stood, walking over to him and embracing him. "You're very important to us, Vanya. Especially to Dima."

"The feeling is mutual, Nita," Ivan replied, returning the embrace.

"I mean it, Vanya. I'm not sure what we would do without you,"

She pulled away then, saying goodnight and leaving the room. Puzzled, Ivan stood and decided to go back to his apartment. He couldn't help but feel uneasy about Nina's touching but rather cryptic compliment. He decided to ignore it however and climbed into his bed, thinking about what Nina had said.

After all of these years he finally found another family, and he couldn't feel any happier.

* * *

 **FINALLY IVAN IS HAPPY**

 **That was honestly the last scene's major purpose, because Ivan is always being beat up so I thought I might as well give him a bit of a break :)**

 **K so history time :)**

 **Shosty and his family were evacuated like a few weeks before the battle for Moscow took place. I was originally gonna have Ivan fight but I know nothing about military stuff so I wasnt about to pretend I do and write something completely inaccurate.**

 **Shosty did lose the manuscript for his seventh and it was found in the bathroom (all of my books say this so im gonna trust it) but im not sure about when he talks about Meyerhold.**

 **OKAY ABOUT THAT**

 **I found out about that in one of my books called _Leningrad: Siege and Symphony_ By Brian...Moynahan? Anyway, in the book it says this:**

 ** _"Shostakovich lost the music for a passage...and he wandered the theatre, looking 'distraut and upset.' Meyerhold was fatherly, and 'said to him gently, embracing him around the shoulders, "Don't you worry, my dear, your March will be found. And if the worst comes to the worst, we'll manage without it."' It was found, and 'the happy composer was soon walking around the theatre, smiling."_**

 **Not sure if it actually happened but ITS ADORABLE so I put it in :D**

 **According to Google, a train ride from Moscow to Samara (Kuibyshev) is around 18 hours so i said more than 18 because idk maybe trains back then were slower? no idea**

 **So they were evacuated to Kuibyshev, got an apartment, I'm pretty sure their piano was provided for them but i made Ivan get it because its sweet, and then Shosty kept trying to write but he couldnt :(**

 **And then he finally finished it in december some time but im not really sure the actual date.**

 **K I listened to Brahms Cello sonata in E minor the whole time I wrote this and its so good listen to it im obsessed. This whole chapter is based on the first movement so even if u just listen to that it's golden :D**

 **Thank you!**


	17. Leningrad's Son, Leningrad's Symphony

**ABCSKW123-IX: Shostakovich is the best :') and whaattt? Foreshadowing? *sweats nervously* hahahaha nooooo (we'll see ;) )**

 **Thanks for sticking with me! :D**

* * *

 **Leningrad's Son, Leningrad's Symphony**

 **1942**

 **Kuibyshev, Russia**

Ivan sighed, a puff of fog escaping his mouth. He shoved his gloved hands in his pockets and buried his face in his scarf. The winter wind bit his face and stung his eyes. He shivered. Standing on the roof of the apartment building he could see most of the city. Kuibyshev was buried in snow, glittering in the moonlight.

Ivan felt a gust of wind behind him and turned around, narrowing his eyes when he saw General Winter behind him, his scarf whipping in the chilled breeze.

"Vanya, how are you?" Winter asked, suddenly beside the nation.

"Fine," Ivan lied quickly, turning away.

As the death toll rose, Ivan found new cuts and bruises on his body. As Leningrad continued to starve, he got thinner, and as the battle of Moscow raged on, a dull pain plagued him nearly every day.

What hurt the most however, was the anger he felt when he learned that Stalin was doing nothing about it. He was letting his cities collapse, hiding in the Moscow underground like a rat.

"Why must you continue to lie to me?" General Winter grumbled. Ivan said nothing. He simply took his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

The General narrowed his eyes at the smoke before speaking again. "The Nazis are falling behind. They're freezing to death as we speak," he reported gleefully.

Ivan took a drawl of Kazbek before answering. "And what about my people? How many of them have froze to death?" He asked, irritated.

"You shouldn't worry. You will come out of this alive."

Ivan huffed, "Easy for you to say. You don't know how much my people and I have suffered!"

General Winter's expression morphed from slight sympathy to anger and irritation. He lashed out at Ivan, his hand closing around the nation's neck. "You think I don't know of your pain? You think I don't care?" He growled, lifting the nation into the air. Ivan's cigarette fell out of his hand and sputtered out on the snow below him. He clawed at the General's hand, trying to break free.

General Winter finally released him, letting him fall to the ground. "I'm doing the best I can to help you win this war!" he yelled, standing over him. He turned away, a hint of regret on his stoic face. "Besides," he continued in a softer tone, "You are the one who agreed to this."

Ivan shuddered as General Winter disappeared in a flurry of wind and snow. He sat there for a moment, blinking in surprise. He had never seen the General so...shaken.

Ivan stood rather slowly, the wind whipping his face as he did. He picked up his soggy cigarette and threw it over the side of the building. Taking one last look at the Kuibyshev skyline, he walked over to the door that led to the staircase back into the building.

Little did he know, General Winter was standing behind him, watching him with guilt and sadness in his eyes.

* * *

January was one of the coldest months of the year.

February was even colder.

Ivan stayed in the apartment building most of the time, debating on whether or not he should go back to Moscow.

"It's up to you, Vanya," Dmitri said when he asked for advice. "If you like it here, you should stay."

Ivan nodded his head. "I do like Kuibyshev. Although...Moscow is dear to me," he paused, frowning. "I would much rather go back to Leningrad."

"That's not an option," Dmitri said, giving him a look.

Ivan rolled his eyes. "I'm aware of that," he muttered.

Dmitri sighed, emptied the already near-empty ashtray, then lit a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully. His eyes were like a stormy sky of emotion behind his glasses. "Vanya, I can't tell you what to do, or even begin to give you advice. From what you've told me however, I think you should stay here a little longer," he finally said.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because 'Our Great Leader' is in Moscow. And he may not take too kindly to you returning so soon after the battle that you were supposed to be in."

Ivan bit the inside of his lip. Dmitri was right. Stalin would not appreciate his return at all. It might mean a trip to the gulag. A night long beating. Being forced to stop a tank with your bare hands. Watching someone you care for get shot.

"Vanya?"

Ivan jumped back into reality at the sound of Dmitri's voice, realising that he had been staring off into space for quite some time.

"I apologize. You're right," Ivan finally murmured.

Dmitri didn't look too happy about being right. In fact, he looked absolutely miserable about it.

"Is everything okay, Mitya?" He asked, discarding his cigarette in the ashtray.

In a small fit of anxiety, Dmitri emptied the ashtray again and sighed. "I'm...tired of him," he finally said. "He's ruined so many lives. He's hurt you more times than anyone could count. I'm sick of it."

"I'm sorry," Ivan said softly, lowering his head. He felt ashamed, like it was his fault for not fighting back more.

Dmitri shook his head. "It's not your fault, Vanya." He murmured. "It's not your fault at all,"

Ivan frowned, staying silent. He promised himself he would try harder, not only for himself, but for Dmitri too.

* * *

Ivan shuddered and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. His scarf was wrapped around him tighter than normal in an attempt to keep warm. He silently cursed his closest and only friend as they briskly walked to the theatre.

Dmitri had woken him up only a few hours ago, literally dragging him out of the bed with surprising strength. When Ivan flopped onto the floor with a string of curse words, Dmitri stood over him like a mother scolding her child.

"You're getting out of this building today," he said, not leaving any room for discussion.

"But-"

" _Нет_ , Vanya," Dmitri cut him off. "You're coming with us to the rehearsal today and that's final!"

Ivan squinted up at the composer. He looked like a small, very determined bird. Like a baby owl. He laughed at his own comparison. "I suppose I'll go with you," he finally said.

Now however, he wished he had refused. He was freezing, his face and fingers felt numb, and his feet were tingling. He looked over at Dmitri, who didn't seem to be bothered by it at all. When he looked back at the children, they seemed completely fine with it too. As did Nina.

Ivan shivered once more. Maybe he just needed a new jacket.

When they finally arrived at the theatre, Ivan rushed inside and sighed when the heat hit him. He buried his face in his scarf and waited for the others to catch up before walking up the stairs and to the director's booth.

The booth sat just enough people. Ivan sat in the top row with Dmitri,Nita and the children sitting a row below them. They had a good view of the stage and the Orchestra that was rehearsing the Seventh.

Ivan watched as the conductor talked quietly with the first chair violinist. "Is he a good conductor?" He asked Dmitri, motioning with his head.

"Mmm... _да_ , but I would much rather have Mravinsky again," Dmitri replied, a little regretfully. Ivan nodded his head in agreement. Mravinsky, who had conducted the fifth and sixth, was definitely missed.

The Orchestra started up in the middle of the first movement. It sounded a little rusty, but it was obvious that they were putting a lot of work into it. Beside him, Dmitri was covering his mouth with his hand, leaning on his elbow as he watched and listened.

Suddenly, only a few minutes after they started playing, Maxim stood from his seat, peering down at the Orchestra. As the crescendo grew, he started bouncing on his feet. Then, he passionately started conducting with his arms.

"Max!" Galina whined, "Sit down!"

Maxim wouldn't listen. He continued to conduct, bouncing up and down and waving his arms wildly in time with the music. Ivan watched on in amusement as Dmitri and Nina tried to calm him down.

"Max, you must sit in your seat," Dmitri said gently, his hand delicately holding Maxim's arm.

" _Нет_!" Maxim insisted, bouncing up and down.

"If you don't sit down we will have to go home," Nina added.

Maxim shook his parents off and continued conducting.

Dmitri and Nina exchanged glances before seeming to telepathically agree on something. Nina took one of Maxim's hands, Dmitri took the other, and when he had finally calmed down, Maxim was scooped up into Dmitri's arms.

"I'm sorry," Dmitri murmured as they exited the booth, "but you were disturbing the Orchestra,"

"I want to be a conductor!" Maxim exclaimed in defence.

"That's good. That's fine. But there are more important things first,"

Ivan waited a while before following them, staring down at the Orchestra longingly. His thoughts were disrupted by Galina standing beside him.

"Stupid Max!" she exclaimed, "I wanted to listen to the music!"

Ivan smiled down at her and ruffled her hair. "We'll get to hear it soon, little one," he replied.

Galina smiled back at him and took him by the hand, leading him out of the booth and to where the rest of the family was.

* * *

Ivan learned more about Dmitri in the week before the Seventh premiered.

He couldn't seem to say no to anyone. Every time he went outside he'd come home and order a ticket for someone to go to his symphony.

A few days away from the premiere, they were walking home from getting bread when a young lady rushed up to them.

"I'm really sorry to ask you, Comrade Shostakovich, but I've been dying to hear your new symphony and want to be at the premiere!" she exclaimed, looking hopeful.

Dmitri looked like a deer caught in headlights. He slowed to a stop and glanced at Ivan, who gave him a look that said _don't_.

"Of course," Dmitri finally said, much to the nation's dismay. He took a piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket and had her write down her name and address. "I'll see what I can do," he added.

"Ah! _Спасибо_! _Спасибо_!" The young lady exclaimed. She hugged the composer tightly before rushing back home.

Ivan gave Dmitri a look as they kept walking. "People are going to use you," he said after a while. "You're too kind,"

"People are already using me, Vanya," the composer replied solemnly, "What difference does it make?"

* * *

It was now two nights before the Seventh, and Ivan could hear Dmitri pacing back and forth beneath his room. The composer left a trail of Kazbek smoke behind him, and when he finished a cigarette, he cleaned up the ashes and lit another.

Sighing, Ivan got out of bed and wandered down the stairs to Dmitri's apartment. As he had suspected, he was pacing back and forth, his cigarette held in his mouth by his teeth and his hands twitching behind his back.

"Mitya," Ivan said, yawning a little.

Dmitri, who didn't know the nation was standing there, jumped in surprise with a small squeak, his cigarette falling onto the floor. He quickly put it out and cleaned up the ash.

Ivan watched him, his hand covering his mouth as Dmitri lit another smoke. "Dima," he chuckled affectionately, "You're lighting it backwards."

Dmitri paused and stared down at the smoke in his hand. He then put it in his mouth anyway, coughing as the filter burned. He put it out and threw it in the trash, reaching for another to find that his pack was empty.

"Do you have any on you?" he asked quietly, still coughing a little from his last cigarette.

Ivan sighed and sat down, shaking his head. "This isn't healthy for you," he murmured.

"Does it look like I care?" Dmitri snapped, pacing again. Ivan winced slightly. The composer caught it and sighed. He sat next to him. "I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his face with his hands.

"You're stressed," Ivan replied, "It's okay."

" _Нет_ ," Dmitri shook his head, "I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

Ivan remained silent, shrugging a little, and they stayed like that for the rest of the night.

* * *

The eve of the premiere was ten times worse.

Dmitri was a bundle of anxiety and nerves. He didn't sit still once, and he kept glancing at the clock like it was going to kill him.

"What if it isn't good enough?" He asked quietly, pacing back and forth. "What if they're all disappointed? If no one likes it then I'll be doomed. They'll kill me for sure."

Ivan, who was sitting on his sofa, put out his cigarette and stood. He walked over to the composer and stopped him, holding him at arm's length by the shoulders.

"You mustn't worry about this so much, Dmitri," he said calmly, using the composer's name to get him to take him seriously. "They will love it. No one is going to kill you. Not while I'm around."

Dmitri's eyes were wide and wet with anxiety. He took a few deep breaths and nodded his head, his twitching hands grabbing the sleeves of Ivan's coat. He looked like a child who thought they saw a monster under their bed.

"I'm worried Vanya. If this symphony isn't what everyone hopes it will be, what...Stalin hopes it will be, they'll take me away. Nita, Max, Galya. Even you."

Ivan shook his head. "Mitya, Mitya," he murmured, "I've kept you from Stalin's wrath for years now. Trust me,"

Dmitri sighed, a small amount of tension leaving his body. Ivan patted his shoulder before continuing.

"I know there's a lot of pressure on you. You _are_ the _Son of Leningrad_ after all," Ivan paused when Dmitri grimaced at the nickname. "I know my people, Mitya. They'll love it," he continued warmly.

"I think I know them more than you, Vanya. Most of the time they're cruel and unpredictable." The composer replied rather coldly.

Ivan frowned and pulled away. He moved out of the way as Dmitri started pacing again, sitting on the sofa.

He thought about what Dmitri had said and realized that he didn't know his people at all anymore. He knew when they were suffering, or when they were in pain, but he didn't know anyone's opinions or beliefs. He stared down at his gloved hands in silence. His thoughts wandered to his older sister. Whenever he had fears or problems such as this one, she was always there to help him.

He wondered where she was now.

"Vanya?"

Ivan took a deep breath and faced Dmitri.

"Are you okay?" the composer asked.

Ivan smiled. "I'm fine," he lied, "You however, need to rest. You have a big day ahead of you,"

Dmitri shook his head. "I won't be able to," he said.

Ivan considered arguing with him, but in the end he decided to just leave him be. He rested on the sofa, eventually falling asleep as he listened to the composer pace.

He dreamed about his sister, calling for him to help her.

He wanted nothing more than to go to her.

* * *

Ivan fixed his uniform, smoothing out the lines and fixing the cuffs. He stared at the medals on his chest, resisting the urge to rip them all off.

His gaze lingered longer at the medal that revealed his rank. _Marshal of the Soviet Union._

Grimacing, he turned away from the mirror and left his apartment, rushing down the stairs to meet Dmitri at the front door. The composer turned around to greet him as soon as his foot left the last step. He frowned, looking troubled.

"You're getting thinner," he muttered, "You should eat more,"

" _Спасибо, Мать_ ," Ivan retorted, a teasing smirk hiding his panic.

"I'm being serious," Dmitri said with a glare, "You're withering away!"

Ivan laughed nervously. He knew this had something to do with Leningrad, so he tried to keep it well hidden from the composer and his family. He knew that knowing the truth would only worry him more, so he decided to keep his problems to himself.

"I'm fine, Mitya. You shouldn't worry so much," Ivan finally said.

Dmitri narrowed his eyes. Before he could say anything however, there was a knock on the door. Dmitri's demeanor became very anxious. His hands shook a little as he approached the door. Exchanging glances with Ivan , he opened the door…

...and sighed in relief.

"Prokofiev...very...erm...very good to see you,"

Ivan moved to stand behind him then, just in case a fight broke out.

Prokofiev gave him a mocking smile, reaching to his left and dragging over two children who were hiding their faces with hats. "Your no good for nothing, irresponsible, rat-faced children were throwing bricks at my townhouse!" he yelled.

Ivan's eyes widened at the insults. He took a step forward, but was held back by Dmitri. The children were shoved towards them, letting out small shrieks of surprise as their father steadied them.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take care of this, Mitya?" Ivan growled, feeling his anger rise and surround him like a purple mist.

" _Да_ , why don't you send your dog after me, _Mitya_?" Prokofiev asked, smirking as he mocked them.

Ivan took another step forward so that he was standing directly in front of the other composer. When Prokofiev looked up and saw the medal of a Marshal on his uniform, he backed away.

"Well...um...it really didn't bother me that much, Comrade, er...I'll just...find my way home!"

And with that, he retreated to his car and drove away.

Puzzled at the sudden change in the composer's mood, Ivan raised an eyebrow and turned back to Dmitri, who was simultaneously dusting off Maxim's clothes and fixing Galina's hair.

"What were you two thinking?" Dmitri asked in a soft but demanding voice.

"Sergei was being mean to you!" Max exclaimed, a fire in his eyes.

"He said your music was awful!" Galina added.

Ivan smiled a little at their defensiveness. They weren't even a decade old and already sticking up for their father.

Dmitri combed back Galina's hair with his fingers and put the bow back in her hair. " _Спасибо_ ," he murmured, "but you shouldn't resort to violence in such a situation. Remember, ladies and gentlemen always find the most peaceful way to resolve conflict. Understand?"

" _Да, папа_ ," the children replied in unison.

"Good," Dmitri smiled kindly, crouching to give them a hug. "Now, Galya, you should change out of those clothes,"

"A lady can wear whatever she wants!" Galina exclaimed, pulling away from her father.

Dmitri chuckled. "I know, _Солнышко_ ," he said, "but we're leaving to see the symphony, and you should wear something fancier,"

Ivan smiled as Galina and Max ran into the apartment. He turned to Dmitri as the composer stood. "Your children are lucky to have a father such as yourself," he said honestly.

The composer blushed a little. "You're too kind," he murmured.

They were silent for a moment, allowing Dmitri's nerves to catch up with him. He started pacing, tapping his fingers against the outside of his thigh. Finally, he turned to face Ivan again.

"Do you have parents, Vanya?" he asked almost cautiously. When Ivan didn't answer, he became even more anxious. "Y-you don't have to answer if you don't want to,"

Ivan slowly shook his head. " _Нет_ ," he murmured, "It's okay." he paused for a moment, thinking about Dmitri's question. "My sister was like a mother to me." he finally said. "I suppose that unfortunately, General Winter could be considered my father,"

Dmitri frowned at that, his fingers stilling for a moment. He fixed his glasses before speaking again. "Your sister must care for you very much. I know you do for her. General Winter however…"

Ivan smiled a little sadly. "He haunts me, Mitya," he admitted. "Every year around the middle of October he's outside my window, or he's knocking on my door, or he simply waltzes into my room as I sleep." Ivan shuddered, looking down at the ground. "He never lets me be. He tortures me. I hate him, and because of him I hate my country,"

Dmitri was silent, standing still. Ivan's face burned with shame at his confession, and he tried to bury it under his scarf.

"He doesn't define you, Vanya," the composer finally said, barely controlled rage in his voice. "Winter doesn't define you, the cold doesn't define you, and neither does Stalin or anyone else! They don't make you who you are!" Dmitri growled a little and turned away. "You don't know how angry I am for what they do to you!"

Eyes wide with surprise, Ivan stumbled a little before finally managing to speak. "Mitya...you care too much," he stuttered.

" _Нет_ , everyone else cares too little!" the composer replied, his tone bitter and frustrated.

At that moment, Nina walked out of the apartment with the children in tow. The two trouble makers looked cleaner and well put together. They almost marched behind their mother, who looked rather nice herself.

"What's wrong?" Nina asked when she noticed their expressions.

Dmitri put his arms around her waist. "Nothing, Nita," he lied quietly, "We're simply anxious about the performance."

Ivan nodded his head, albeit a little stupidly.

"It's going to be marvelous, Dima," Nina murmured. She gave him a small kiss. "Your music always is,"

Much to Ivan's surprise, Dmitri's face broke out into a huge, boyish grin. Something he hadn't seen in years. He marveled at how easily Nina could cheer him up.

"Ew…" Maxim and Galina whined, making fake gagging noises

With that, Dmitri and Nina broke apart and they left the building.

As they got closer to the theatre, Dmitri's calm demeanor cracked and fell apart, his nervous ticks more profound than usual. He gripped Nina's hand rather tightly, his other hand shakily playing scales against his thigh. His mouth twitched from a passive expression to something rather nervous before reverting back to its original expression.

When they arrived, there was already a lineup out the door to see the symphony. Dmitri took a deep breath, staring at the people in disbelief. Not wanting him to choke, Ivan put Galina and Max on his shoulders and started towards the door. He laughed as they giggled at him and turned around to smile at the dumbfounded composer and his wife.

"Well? You going to listen to the symphony out here?" he asked teasingly.

Dmitri blinked and glanced at Nina, who smiled reassuringly. He gathered his courage and finally followed Ivan into the theatre.

The nation grinned and turned back around, faltering as his own nerves about the symphony starting to surface. He glanced at the line as they passed, hoping they would be satisfied, not only for Dmitri's sake, but also for his own.

* * *

 **The seventh :))))))**

 **Okay so this chapter really tries to show the situation in Leningrad. The winter that year was one of the coldest ever, so people would leave home to find something to eat and then suddenly get tired because their energy is lost and then sit down and die in the streets. At this point, people were desperate, so some of them ate family pets, others ate the corpses on the street, and in many cases, they would eat their own families.**

 **Ivan is cold and thin all of the time because that's how it was like in Leningrad. Since to him, Leningrad is still his capitol, i think he would show signs of how the situation there was. He's keeping all of this from Dmitri because his mother and two sisters were left behind in Leningrad, so he would naturally be very worried about the situation there. The letters he would receive from his family would have been censored, so he would know things were bad but probably wouldn't know just how bad.**

 **During a rehearsal of the Seventh, Maxim did get up and spontaneously start conducting. He's actually a pretty famous conductor now.**

 **I saw a video where Shostakovich lit the filter of his cigarette and thought i'd put it in :)**

 **Shostakovich's children used to stand outside Prokofiev's window and sing his name really loudly to annoy him. They were huge trouble makers, and Prokofiev got so annoyed that he'd throw things like paperweights at them.**

 **Prokofiev was probably not this much of a dick but eh this is fanfic lmao**

 **All this talk about Ukraine...maybe she'll show up at some point... ;)**

 **I actually listened to alot of Beethoven while writing this. Check out the Third Movement of the Moonlight Sonata :) i think it captures all the nervousness and anticipation in this chapter rather well lol**

 **Thanks for sticking around :)**


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